


Heart and Soul

by rattyjol



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Community: sncross_bigbang, Crossover, F/F, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-13
Updated: 2012-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-08 05:56:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rattyjol/pseuds/rattyjol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone is going on a mass murder spree in Central London, and Sherlock Holmes wants in on the case. But when a jug of mysterious oil is dropped on his doorstep he forgets all about it, leaving John -- who is a perfectly normal bloke, no really he is -- to call in his sister and her partner, who, ah, specialize in this sort of thing. But it turns out it's not just demons who are loose in London; there are angels here too, and they're Heavenbent on restarting the Apocalypse. So we've got four people and a skull (and an archangel, thank you very much) against the massed forces of Heaven and Hell. This should go nicely. Here we go again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act One - In which John Watson is not a hunter.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 round of [sncross_bigbang](http://sncross-bigbang.livejournal.com/). [Slowsunrise](http://slowsunrise.livejournal.com/) did some gorgeous art for the story, which can be found [HERE](http://slowsunrise.livejournal.com/67161.html). Thanks go [jaune_chat](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/) for beta'ing/making sense of things and [Treva](stopandsmellthedata.tumblr.com) for helping with the plot. And by 'helping' I mean staying up till five in the morning on more than one occasion outlining plot points on GoogleDocs while I watched in sleep-deprived astonishment.
> 
> Note that in my headcanon, and thus this fic's canon, the demon blood was a placebo that Ruby gave Sam to keep him reliant on her. The powers stemmed purely from his original dose as an infant. This will become important later.

**Twenty-seven years ago**  
   
Sherlock’s dreams tumbled through his head and spilled out his ears like a waterfall, splashing across his pillow. Trying to keep a grip on them was trying to hold the tide in his hands.

He opened his eyes to himself -- a drawing of himself -- standing proudly at the bow of a two-masted schooner. The ship was drawn precisely to scale, rigging and all, but the depiction of himself stood several inches taller than it should have, a broadsword strapped to its side. 

From the other side of the room, Mycroft spoke, voice hushed. “I don’t understand what you want me to do.”  
   
Sherlock went very still, deepening his breathing deliberately. He’d once read a book where a boy was trying to feign sleep, and was caught because he’d held his breath.  
   
“But what’ll happen to me?”  
   
Sherlock almost turned over. There had been no one else speaking, he was sure of it. There was no one for Mycroft to be talking to. And on top of that, he’d never heard Mycroft sound like this. He almost sounded scared, but that couldn’t be right, because big brothers never got scared.  
   
“Do you promise? Do you promise he’ll be safe?” Sherlock lay still as Mycroft shifted and crawled out of bed. Listening closely to the sound of footsteps on the thinly carpeted floor, Sherlock waited until he was sure his brother was facing the other way before very quietly, very carefully rolling over. His eyes had to strain to see much in the darkness, but he was positive that there was no third person in the room.  
   
By the desk in the corner, Mycroft stood with his back turned to Sherlock. He seemed to be looking at the model ship, half finished, that the brothers had spent the last month carefully slotting together piece by piece. Moonlight reflected off the glossy football poster on the wall, casting Mycroft’s figure into sharp relief. “And it’s the only way?” There was a short pause before Mycroft said, “Then, okay.” He sounded more determined, now; more like he did when playing Pirate King or telling Sherlock what to do. “Yes.”  
   
In an instant, the room flooded with light. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the covers over his head, eyes searing. When the glow faded, he peeked out to see Mycroft standing over him, his expression oddly blank.  
   
“Go to sleep, Sherlock,” Mycroft ordered. There was something in his tone, something new, and Sherlock thought -- knew -- that this was no longer his brother. But before the impression could come together to form a coherent idea, Mycroft had reached out to touch two fingers to his forehead, and Sherlock tumbled back into the roaring waters of his dreams.

*

**March 29 - SEVEN**

"Well?" Lestrade's arms were crossed as Sherlock stood, taking a careful step back from the body. "What've you got?"

Sherlock didn't answer right away, taking a final long look at the corpse and surrounding area before launching into his deductions. "There's salt residue on the shirt," he began, "probably tears -- not his -- and hardly any posthumous bruising. Most killers wouldn't take so much care when dumping a body, so - someone who cared about him. He was a small man, but heavy. It would take two people to easily lift and carry the body. But there are only two pairs of footprints leading to and from the body: the killer, and the jogger who found it. So, someone strong, strong enough to lift a grown man and carry him here from the parking lot. These footprints are obviously the jogger's: athletic shoes, panicked and widely spaced, pacing as she waited for the police to arrive. So this one is the killer's. Deeper coming towards the body than away, because he or she had extra weight. Size six shoes, no, six and a half, a little over five feet by the stride. Definitely a woman. She tripped here." He pointed to a flurry of prints a few meters from the body, where a smudged pair of handprints were clearly visible in the dirt. "Small, strong hands, probably a serious athlete, likely a gymnast. So, close to the victim, around five feet tall, athletic, skinned palms from her fall," he concluded, then turned and strode over to the victim's wife and adult daughter, who were milling around anxiously by the crime scene tape.

"Hey!" the daughter protested as Sherlock seized her wrist and forcefully turned her palm upwards.

"Scraped hands," he proclaimed triumphantly. She was led away by a pair of uniforms, face twisted with anger and despair as she protested the accusation. Next to Sherlock, the widow began to sob, shoulders shaking. "Boring," he declared of the case to no one in particular, and the woman buried her face in her hands.

From across the crime scene, John shot Sherlock a Look. He had many Looks, but this one said quite plainly: Bit not good, Sherlock. Go apologize before I punch you.

Rolling his eyes at his flatmate, Sherlock turned to the sobbing woman next to him. Fascinating, the sheer volume of tears that a grieving widow can produce. He ought to do a study on that. With all the sincerity he could muster, he said to the woman, "I'm very sorry for your loss." He opened his mouth to say more, a comforting statistic on murders committed by family members, but John nodded approvingly in his direction and he decided to leave it.

As he left the crime scene, he distantly heard Sally Donovan comment, "Who would have guessed the Freak would ever have gotten a heart?"

*

**March 30 - SIX**

"God." John shook his head at the front page of the paper. "Have you seen this, Sherlock?"

"Of course." Sherlock didn't even look up from the chemicals he was oh-so-carefully measuring out. "No data in the article, of course. Dull. Reporters wouldn't know important information if it hit them over the head."

"There are twelve people dead, Sherlock." Sherlock's eyes flickered guiltily at John's disapproving tone, but he held his ground.

"Lestrade won't let me in this early," he said dismissively. "Give it a day or two."

John put the newspaper aside, but the headline (MASS MURDER AT BELOVED DINER) still lingered, bold and foreboding, inside his eyelids.

*

**March 31 - FIVE**

Sherlock was intrigued.

Papers were strewn about the sitting room floor, scattered with a sweep of his arm to clear a space on the desk. He leaned forward on his elbows, fingers steepled beneath a pale chin as he examined the crisp, perfectly untouched package before him. He couldn't get a single scrap of data from the exterior at all. The address was typed (Mr. Not A Hero, 221b Baker Street, London, NW1 5LA), the stationary and plain brown wrapping Royal Mail standard-issue. Overnight delivery, likely packaged at the post office. Even the tape, prised oh-so-carefully from the paper and checked for fingerprints, yielded no results.

Finally he simply ripped the paper away, revealing a plain white box about the size of a human skull. Again he examined it closely, with the same outcome. Not a single fact could be gained from either the wrapping or the box. This was new, this was fascinating. With only the slightest bit of reverence, he lifted the lid of the box.

Inside was . . . a jug.

It was a little anticlimactic. He carefully removed the jug - more of an amphora, really - and set it down on the desk, running his fingers over the clay. It was ancient, that much was obvious. Probably Middle Eastern in origin, judging from the clay color. Without in-depth analysis he'd put it at around three millennia, but of course it was possible that it was much, much older. But it couldn't be a puzzle all on its own -- a jug, after all, is simply a container, a vessel for holding water or wine or -- oil? Completely disregarding all basic safety precautions, he dipped a finger in the filmy liquid. Yes, definitely an oil of some sort.

His interest piqued, he collected samples of his specimens (the amphora was obviously far too important and fragile to be lugging about London, even by his standards), and in twenty minutes he was settled in at his favorite lab table at Bart's.

*

A little over six hours later, Sherlock received a text.

_> Off work. You haven't_  
> texted me all day. Are  
> you dead? 

With all the speed of an expert typist with something far more important to be doing, Sherlock quickly returned:

_> Bart's. Now. SH_

_> There in ten. Try not_  
> to terrorize the poor  
> students too much  
> before I get there, yeah? 

Sherlock didn't bother to reply, returning to his tests on the properties of the mysterious oil.

*

John strolled through the doors under eight minutes later, rather impressed with himself for the casual manner he had commanded all the way from the surgery. "So, what is it that can keep you occupied for seven hours straight? Have you discovered a new form of mold? Or, wait, don't tell me -- the leftovers in the fridge have finally gained sentience. Am I close?"

"Don't be silly, John, that was last week. Come look at this." Sherlock sidestepped, allowing John access to his microscope. Surprised, John leaned forward to take a look.

"It's just a drop of oil."

"Wrong." Sherlock indicated a messy stack of papers, all covered edge to edge in an odd medley of computer readouts and the detective's own neat hand. "It has all the properties of common vegetable oil - viscosity, density, surface tension - but it's highly flammable and seems not to burn out. Look." He pointed at a tiny flickering flame in the midst of the lab equipment. "Its fuel was two drops of oil and a single match. It hasn't gone out since I lit it precisely five hours and eighteen minutes ago."

John briefly studied the rough stretch of chemical structure that Sherlock had drawn out and shook his head. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Nor have I." Sherlock grinned, more excited by this new puzzle than John had seen him in a long while. "It arrived in the post this morning. And that's not all. This--" he pulled a paper from the stack with a flourish "--is the initial analysis of the clay from the container it arrived in. Radiocarbon dating of the organic matter within the clay suggests an approximate age of six thousand years."

John laughed. "Okay, Sherlock, now you're just pulling my leg."

"I assure you, John, the results are real."

"Right. Okay, assuming this jug of oil really is six thousand years old, it's a priceless historical artifact. Why would someone mail it to you?"

"It obviously has a more immediate significance. Come along, John." Sherlock swept all his papers up in one deft movement and dumped them into John's arms. "I'll need more samples. We have work to do."

*

"Good afternoon, Sherlock, Dr. Watson. Would you care for a cup of tea?" Mycroft Holmes smiled in that diplomatically polite way of his, having just replaced the lid on John's teapot. How Mycroft always managed to finish steeping the tea the moment they walked in the door was an ongoing mystery to John. Probably he had an employee notify him when their cab was exactly six and a half blocks away.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock sounded distinctly less bad-tempered than he often did when his brother came to call, but bad-tempered all the same.

"Can't a man visit his dear younger brother without a reason?"

"Not when that man is you, no." Flopping down on the couch like a sulky teenager, Sherlock narrowly missed knocking the teapot from Mycroft's hand with his ridiculously long legs. John wasn't sure he hadn't done it on purpose. "I do hope you didn't help yourself to the Jaffa cakes. John is ever so fond of them; it would be a shame if you finished them all."

Mycroft smiled blandly, hooking his umbrella over his arm as he stood. "What a pleasant chat. Good afternoon." He breezed out the door, closing it silently behind him.

John looked blank. "He didn't want anything?"

"He always wants something," Sherlock growled. He pointed at the clay shards beside the desk: the ancient amphora, dashed to pieces on the floor. Not a drop of oil remained.

"Your brother broke into our flat just to steal some oil you got in the post?"

"That appears to be the logical explanation." Anger making his movements quick and jolting, he pulled his results from the hospital lab towards him and began to go through them again.

With a shake of his head, John sighed and moved to get the dustpan. A rustling under his feet made him pause. "What's this?" He stooped to pick up the wrapping from the amphora's original packaging.

"It's useless," Sherlock said, not looking up. "Bin it."

"No, but it's got writing on it. Look! It was on the inside; you must have missed it."

Sherlock was at his side in a flash, seizing the paper from his hands and examining it closely. "The handwriting is immaculate," he noted, tilting it towards the light. "Obviously a disguised hand, quite well done. Likely male, although it's hard to be certain. Some sort of code." He spread the paper out flat on the desk, reading the series of numbers out loud. "One-one-nine-oh-eight-one-four."

"What is it?"

"A code, an address, a phone number, a number sequence, a URL, a password, it could be anything. We'll have to narrow it down."

*

"Sherlock, what are you doing here? I didn't call you, did I?" Lestrade rubbed his forehead wearily.

"Heard about it over the police scanner," Sherlock said, brushing past the DI, but Lestrade caught his arm before he could reach the yellow crime scene tape.

"Sorry," he said, sounding genuinely apologetic. "Not this time."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock scoffed. "Two mass murders in three days and not a single suspect; the police are clearly out of their depth."

"You're not wrong there." (Like he's ever wrong, Lestrade thought privately.) "But it's orders from higher-ups. No consultants on this one, particularly you."

Sherlock scowled. "I'll hear from you by tomorrow evening," he predicted, turning away with a swish of his long coat. "John," he called, as if his flatmate were nothing more than an exceptionally well-trained dog. John, who had been some ways away examining something on his fingers with great fascination, jumped guiltily as if caught doing something illicit or potentially embarrassing and hurried to catch up with the cab Sherlock had seemingly pulled from thin air.

"They'll be begging for my help soon enough," Sherlock sniffed.

"Hmm," John agreed, discreetly wiping his fingers clean on his trouser leg.

"Where to, loves?" the kindly-faced cabbie inquired.

"221 Baker Street," Sherlock said dismissively, turning to John. "Do you smell anything odd?"

"Such as?"

"Sulphur. The odor is also similar to rotten eggs, but no, it's definitely sulphur."

"No," John said firmly, but his eyes flickered warily towards the front seat several times throughout the rest of the drive.

"Here we are, loves," the cheerful driver said finally. "221b Baker. That'll be ten quid twenty."

As usual, Sherlock slipped out on to the sidewalk practically before the cab even rolled to a full stop, leaving John to pay the fare. John handed it over with rather more caution than usual and followed his flatmate out of the cab.

"Oh, and love?" the cabbie called after him, leaning her silver head out the window. "Say hello to dear Clara for me, will you?" Before John could react, the cab sped off into the flow of Central London, leaving him bewildered on the pavement.

"Are you coming inside, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked from the doorway. "Only it's rather warm outside and air-conditioning doesn't come cheaply, you understand."

"Yes, of course, Mrs. Hudson. Sorry."

"Not a problem, dear." The elderly landlady looked startled as he rushed past, wrestling his mobile from his jacket pocket as he went.

*

**April 1 - FOUR**

"Oi, John-boy!" John opened the door to find himself pulled into a huge bear hug. Taller than her brother and built like a brick wall, Harriet Watson was a force to be reckoned with. She let him struggle for a minute before releasing him, then stood back with a wide grin. "Think you've gotten smaller, John, what's that about?"

John laughed breathlessly, rolling his shoulders. "Good to see you too, Harry. Clara." He leaned to one side, peering round his sister to nod at the woman on the stoop.

"You called?" she prompted quietly, her American accent strange to hear in the middle of London. Smaller and more soft-spoken then her partner, Clara Warner was nonetheless equally dangerous, when she had to be.

"Yeah, this better be important, John-o," Harry warned with a grin. "We were trailing a couple of storm kelpies up at Inverness when you called; you know how much I like taking those suckers out. You say you've got demons?"

"Yeah." John absentmindedly thumped his sister on the shoulder and she sidestepped in response, so all three could see each other. "It's one of Sherlock's," John continued, "or he thinks it is. But they're not letting him on the case." The additional "Thank God" was silent, but nonetheless hung in the air between them. There was movement from upstairs, and John glanced nervously behind him at the steps that led to 221b. "I'll give you the details later." 'Later' being 'when Sherlock isn't around'.

"Can we meet him?" Harry asked, following his gaze.

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea," John said, thinking of how much Sherlock had been able to tell about him with a single glance the first time they'd met. It was probably only thanks to the time that had elapsed since his retirement (if you could call it that) that the great detective hadn't been able to guess at his full past. But Harry was already halfway up the stairs, feet thundering like a herd of cattle.

"Don't worry," Clara said to John with a small smile, stepping inside. "We showered and changed clothes before we came. He won't get much from us."

John shrugged helplessly, waving for her to go ahead of him. "I guess we'll see."

*

Upstairs, Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa, fingers steepled beneath his chin. A sharpie was abandoned on the floor and John looked up to see the code from the package wrapping scrawled on the ceiling several times in various permutations above the detective's head. He opened his mouth to complain but then thought better of it, instead gesturing towards the two hunters. "Sherlock, this is my sister Harry and her wife, Clara."

"Ex-wife," Clara corrected, but neither woman seemed particularly bothered by the mistake.

"Busy," Sherlock grunted.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock huffed. "Sorry, yes, hello, nice to meet you, good-bye."

"What's that you're looking at?" Harry asked, completely unfazed.

"It was written in a package he got in the mail," John answered, when it became clear that Sherlock wasn't about to. "It had a jug of some weird oil, and this." He gestured exasperatedly at the writing on the ceiling, but two pairs of ears had metaphorically pricked at the mention of an unusual substance. John shot Harry a warning glance, but not one of the dozens of kinds of "be careful" looks she'd seen before. This one said, "He's clever and he's important and he knows everything but this. Don't ruin it."

But when had Harry ever listened to John's cautions? "What sort of oil?"

Sherlock waved a hand at his last remaining sample, sealed in a glass vial on the desk. "Don't compromise it," he warned, more of a concession than he usually granted when it came to strangers and important evidence. Clara wandered over to have a look, while Harry returned her attention to the numbers on the ceiling.

"You've gotten the reference already, yeah?"

Sherlock was on his feet in a flash. "What reference?"

Harry looked startled. "Reckon not, then. _1984_ , like the novel? Room 101? The numbers alternate, see, one, and then the other one, then the nine--"

"Of course!" Sherlock tripped gracelessly over to the pile of books left over from the Blind Banker case. He tore through the stack, throwing irrelevant books back behind him over his head, until he found the one he was looking for.

"Here!" Sherlock rifled quickly through the pages, probably taking in more of the plot in a few moments than most people took in when actually reading it. "Yes. John, I'm going out. Don't wait up." Seizing his coat and scarf, Sherlock threw the book to one side and dashed out the door.

*

John shook his head as he watched Sherlock disappear into the dusk, his arm held out for a cab. He turned away from the window to face his guests.

"Right," he said. "Takeout?"

"Thai," Harry volunteered. Clara shrugged in agreement.

"There's a place down the street that delivers." John began rooting round the mess of papers on the desk, searching for the menu and phone number.

"So, where's that luxurious suite of ours?" Harry hefted her duffel bag over one shoulder.

"Thought you had a hotel?" John said absently, shifting to one side a stack of bills and several pages that looked as though they'd been torn out of a library book on wormholes.

"It was a by-the-hour place." Clara pulled the takeout menus from under the skull on the mantel and passed them to John. "We checked out."

John shrugged, busy trying to type the restaurant's number into his mobile with one hand. "You can take my room. Upstairs, on your left."

Harry nodded, catching the bag Clara threw at her with her free hand, and headed up the stairs.

"You're not sitting up all night for our sake, John Watson," Clara warned.

John's phone buzzed in his hand, and he clicked out of the dial screen to view the text.

_> She's been sober nearly_  
> four months, if you  
> were wondering. SH 

John smiled as he redialed the takeout number. "Sofa's fine," he said, lifting the phone to his ear as he turned away.

*

"So how are things?" John asked quietly. "Between you and her." Both were leaned back comfortably, Clara's head pillowed on his chest. The television was on, its volume set low enough to be nothing but a soft, comforting murmur in the background. Clara had always been unnerved by silence.

"They're fine," she answered, her eyes shut against the flickering glare from the telly. "Better lately, since she quit drinking."

A smile drifted across John's face. "Sherlock said nearly four months. Was he close?"

"Spot on." Clara looked about as a pleased as John had ever seen her, including the time she'd taken down a whole nest of vampires single-handed. "And I think she'll keep at it this time; I really do. She's been even better since you called. Happier."

He shifted beneath her, his tone colored with surprise. "Really?"

"Really. She loves you more than anything. Hell of a lot more than she loves me." She levered herself up on an elbow and twisted to look at him, auburn hair pooling on his stomach. "Did you really not know that?" He shook his head wordlessly and she lay down again with a sigh, wriggling a little to get comfortable. "Then you're an idiot," she declared, and he chuckled. "Do you know," she continued, and her voice was softer now, so that John had to strain to hear it over the sound of the telly, "do you know, the only time I ever saw her cry was when you walked out?"

John couldn't find anything to say.

"Harry Watson," she murmured into his shirt, "is the best woman either of us will ever meet."

"That I do know."

Clara reached over and switched off the television, leaving two old friends to lie in friendly darkness and forget the silence.

*

**April 2 - THREE**

John flew awake with a grunt of surprise as something heavy dropped onto his stomach.

"You know," Harry said loudly, "if I were a less secure woman I'd feel really threatened by this."

Scowling blearily, Clara swatted at her partner's shoulder. "Gerroff us, you big lump."

Laughing, Harry jumped up with surprising grace for someone of her size and moved well out of arm's reach. Clara rolled off John and onto the floor.

"Ooh." John sat up, pulling faces as he rubbed at his shoulder. "Now I know why Mum always made one of us sleep on the couch." He paused, wrinkling his nose. "Has Sherlock left the head out of the fridge again or did Harry try to cook?"

"Ha ha." Harry made a face. "That's the smell of bread catching fire in the toaster."

"The blue one or the metallic one?"

She looked at him blankly. "What blue one?"

John's expression could be described as more than a little smug. "The metallic one is for Sherlock's experiments. But don't worry, he's sanitized it since the thing with the toes. I think."

"Eww." Harry pretended to gag. "Here, Clara, sharing is caring." She crouched down to capture the half-sleeping hunter's mouth in a kiss. Clara responded with enthusiasm.

Rolling his eyes, John tugged at his rumpled shirt and went to collect the myriad of daily papers Sherlock was subscribed to from the front stoop. It was only a few moments later that his feet could be heard pounding back up the stairs. Harry and Clara broke apart in surprise.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, holding up the front page, "but you've got work to do."

*

"Three killings," John said grimly, adding the clipping from that morning's paper to the small pile on the coffee table. "Thirty-five people dead. No pattern to them, just that they were all public businesses in Central London. Sherlock's already marked the first two." He waved a hand tiredly in the direction of the vast London map pinned to the wall. Clara wandered over to study it, leaving Harry to sift through the pile of articles. John caught glimpses of headlines he'd already seen: MASS MURDER AT BELOVED DINER; SECOND KILLING IN CITY CENTRE; RIPPER STILL AT LARGE, POLICE BAFFLED. The latest one read: RETAIL RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN. John couldn't help thinking that Sherlock was right: the police would be asking for his help any day now. His stomach knotted at the idea of Sherlock on a demon case. A mind that rational and empirical could never accept the idea of the supernatural without proof, and by the time he was close enough to get that proof he'd be long dead.

It was Harry who snapped him out of his silent panic attack. "Was there sulphur at every scene?" she asked, skimming through one of the articles on the second killing, where two writers from the opinion columns argued back and forth on whether this was a serial killer or political terrorism.

"It's not in the articles, but I think so." John reached for a clipping from one of yesterday's papers. "If it wasn't a consistent thing I don't think they would have kept it out of the media."

"No use deterring copycats if it's not all the same," Harry agreed, frowning at a blurred photograph of a pair of body bags being wheeled out of a shoe store. The blinds were drawn, giving the whole place a cold, dead feeling.

"Hey," Clara said from the wall map. "I think I have a pattern."

John and Harry were at her shoulders in an instant. "It's a triangle," John said after a moment, feeling every bit as stupid as he did when Sherlock was urging him to notice something. "And?"

"Look," Clara said, tapping each tack with a long, thin finger. "It's an equilateral triangle. Sixty degree angles and equal sides."

"What's in the center?" Harry wondered, leaning in closer to the map.

"That's a good question." Clara reached for the string taped to the wall probably for just such a purpose and deftly measured off the medians, making a mark where the three lines intersected.

"Oh my God," she said, after a moment of squinting at the tiny penciled label.

"What?" Harry leaned in close to look. "Shit."

"What is it?" Worry flared again in John's gut. Clara sidestepped to make room, and John found himself blinking at the small, neatly labeled words next to Clara's pencil mark: 221 Baker Street.

"John," said Harry, turning wide eyes on her brother. "They're coming for you."

*

The sudden tension in the room was shattered suddenly by a quiet rap on the flat door. They all jumped, and John hurried to sweep the newspaper clippings off the coffee table and under the sofa.

"Boys," called Mrs. Hudson, "Inspector Lestrade is here to see you. Are you decent in there?"

"Yes, come in, Greg," John said, waving Harry and Clara away from the wall map, but he needn't have bothered. Lestrade couldn't see a thing above the two large file boxes balanced precariously in his arms. Harry hurried over, lifting the top box away with hardly an effort.

"Cheers," the detective said gratefully, setting down the second box and rubbing his shoulders with a wince. "Swear those things have gotten heavier over the years. Morning," he added, now directing his speech directly at John. "Sherlock in?"

"Haven't seen him since last night. Are you putting him on the case?"

"The serial mass murders? No, sorry, orders still stand. Bet he's been absolutely insufferable about it." Lestrade sighed, his shoulders slack with exhaustion. "I thought I'd bring him some cold cases. Might keep him busy for a day or two."

John quietly let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Well, thanks. I'll let him know when he gets back." Noting the way the inspector's eyes flickered curiously in the hunters' direction, he added, "Greg, this is my sister, Harry, and her--" he paused, remembering yesterday's slip-up "--partner, Clara Warner."

Lestrade nodded in acknowledgement. "Greg Lestrade."

"Do you know why Sherlock's not allowed on the case?" John asked, hoping to God he only sounded casually curious.

"No idea." Lestrade scratched his wrist absently. "Anyway, I've got to run. Stop by the Yard if you need any more cold cases, though I don't know how many I have left later than 1950." He gave them all a brief, tired smile and showed himself out.

"Did you see the way he scratched his hand?" Harry asked, after the door had shut behind him and his footsteps faded down the stairs. "He knows more than he's telling." She turned decisively to John. "You'll have to get him sloshed."

"What? Why?"

"Well he's already seen us, so we can't exactly pass for MI5," Clara reasoned. "And Moran's not picking up his mobile."

"Moran?" John considered the hunter he'd met in Afghanistan. Best sniper he'd ever seen, and not a bad hunter either. "Since when are you in touch with Moran?"

"Since he saved both our asses from a pair of djinn last year." Clara yawned. "I need coffee."

"Left cabinet, second shelf," John directed. "Check for body parts," he called after her. Harry laughed.

"Harry." Suddenly speaking in hushed, serious tones, John grabbed his sister by the arm. "I need to talk to you."

Eyes flickering towards the kitchen, he soundlessly drew her out to the landing outside the flat door, pulling it closed behind him.

"What is it?" Harry's good humor had dissipated like mist: she was all business now.

"It's Clara," he said. "I think something's after her." In as few words as possible, he briefly outlined his encounter with the demon cabbie. "Can you think of anyone, a demon who got away, or--"

"No, I don't know . . . Are you sure she was a demon?"

"Well, no." He let out a long breath. "But if she was -- just keep an eye out."

"Yeah. Yeah, of course."

John turned to go back inside, then paused. "Could it be a demon she met before she started hunting with us?"

Her eyes widened. "You don't think--?"

"I don't know."

"God," she said, running fingers through her short hair in frustration. She was glaring at the door as if she could burn a hole in it and check on Clara through the wood. "She can't know about this. If there's any chance--"

"Hey." He touched her shoulder. "If anyone can keep a secret, it's us, right?" Without waiting for an answer, he reached across and opened the door.

Clara was already back from the kitchen, just juggling three steaming mugs of coffee onto the table. She looked up as they entered. "Where've you two been, then?"

"Helping Mrs. Hudson with the groceries," John invented wildly.

Though Clara had almost certainly noticed, she said nothing, instead holding up the blue striped mug. "Still black, no sugar?" she asked, handing it off.

"Cheers," John said, glad for the change of subject. He took a sip and pretended to choke on it. "God, Clara, I see your coffee-making skills haven't improved."

"Better than mine, at any rate," Harry said cheerfully, all trace of worry gone from her face. "Bottoms up."

*

Lestrade was drunk.

Really, seriously, pissed-off-his-arse drunk. He'd lost count of rounds somewhere around a dozen, and the world had turned a curious shade of sideways sometime after that.

In his defense, he hadn't _meant_ to get smashed. When John Watson invited him out for a pint he'd thought sure, the Ripper case wasn't going anywhere and he hadn't had more than a few hours away from work since it started. He needed a break before he had a break-down. Just a few pints, night out with a friend, he'd thought. But he hadn't counted on the half-price lager, and he certainly hadn't anticipated just how well the good doctor could hold his liquor. In the morning, when he no longer had the urge to smash every lightbulb in the neighborhood and had run out of ways to curse God and lager and whoever invented alcoholic beverages in the first place, he would wonder if maybe John had invited him to that particular pub with its weekly half-price deals on purpose, and immediately dismiss the idea on the grounds that John Watson was far too ethical and straightforward a man to scheme up something like that.

"'M really sorry," Lestrade said yet again, his tongue doing a drunken jig and tripping over the words. "Up to me, Serlock -- Sherlock'd be on th' case 'n a second. But, bur -- bruro -- brurocraty--"

"Bureaucracy?" John supplied helpfully, his own speech hardly slurred.

"Yes," Lestrade declared. "Tha'sit. 'S all brurocraty, y'know?" He waved a hand vaguely. "Gov'ment says no Sherlock, an' poof, no Sherlock."

John caught the bartender's eye and signaled for another round. She winked and nodded, and he smiled in return. Lestrade had never pegged him for a flirt. Seemed there were many new things he was learning about John Watson tonight, though he wasn't sure how well he'd remember them in the morning.

"The government?" John asked casually, handing Lestrade his drink. "Do you know who in the government?"

"Yeah," Lestrade said, nodding vigorously. He nearly slipped sideways off his stool with the motion, catching himself on the bar just in time. You didn't get to be a DI without decent reflexes, he supposed. "Yeah, yeah. 'S that guy, the big scary one. Serlock's brother, wassisface, Mecraft or summat."

"Mycroft." John no longer sounded casually interested; in fact he sounded rather angry.

"Tha's the one!" Lestrade nodded happily and almost fell off his stool again, but John caught his elbow in time, steadying him.

"It's late," he said, his voice and expression blandly polite again as he helped Lestrade up. He tugged out his wallet and threw down a handful of notes, hand perfectly steady. "Come on, I'll get you a cab."

*

_Mycroft._

John swore softly under his breath, cursing Mycroft for tricking him and himself for being an idiot. He passed out from under a streetlight and stumbled over the curb, more than a little drunk himself.

Mycroft. How could he be so stupid? He wondered if this was how Sherlock felt when he deduced; all the dots had connected in his head, linked by bright, shining lines stretched taut between them. Sherlock's lack of access to the crime scenes. Toying with them: leaving a puzzle on their doorstep and then taking it away, or maybe destroying a hint left by an unknown party. It only made sense; no man could wield so much power without someone noticing. Digging through his memories, he was convinced the whiff of sulphur in the air of the warehouse that first day was more than just his memory playing tricks on him. Plastered or not, he was going to pay that hellspawn a visit and give him what was coming to him.

Pulling out his mobile phone, he impatiently checked the screen, only to be confronted again with the irritating phrase: No New Messages.

"Dammit, Sherlock," he muttered under his breath, firing off his umpteenth text. "Call me back." He checked that the ringer volume was on high and shoved the phone away again.

As he continued down the street, he caught sight of a security camera on a nearby storefront and stopped in his tracks, a horrible thought suddenly occurring to him. Was the demon watching him right now? Did he know John was (was, he told himself firmly, though his intentions belied his adamancy) a hunter? Harry and Clara-- shit. He fumbled for his mobile again, but before he could even dial the first digit an arm was bent around his throat, a hand twisting at his wrist until he dropped the phone. Instinctively he kicked back at his attacker. His foot connected with a leg (lower thigh, he guessed) but the man didn't even stumble. John was sober now, alcohol flooded out by a rush of adrenaline. Struggling, he was drawn backwards with the help of a second attacker into an abandoned store front with papered windows, invisible to any of the very few people who might walk down the street. John heard his mobile crushed underfoot in the melée and felt a brief flash of disappointment; he had hoped to keep the phone longer than Harry had.

A fist connected with his jaw and stars burst behind his eyes, momentarily dazing him as a gag was slipped into his half-open mouth and his feet were kicked out from under him. He only just kept his head from smashing into the tiled floor. Even before he could turn over, a kick to the ribs knocked the breath out of him, quickly followed by another.

"Enough." The voice was quiet and oddly familiar, with a natural air of command about it. Army training kicking in, John had the sudden urge to snap to attention. He drew in a sharp breath, the pain in his ribs pulling him back to the reality of the situation just in time to hear the man finish, "--Heart. He is not to be harmed."

Very carefully, John rolled over onto his back. Three men loomed over him, their faces cast in shadow. Two held handguns; the third stood a few steps back, arms crossed. He was obviously the one in control.

"You know the orders," the third man said. "We take him to the Boss."

"Y'hear that, Heart?" One of the lackeys knelt, his blandly forgettable face cast into sharp relief by the light from the half-open doorway. "You get to meet the Boss." He grinned wide, his eyes flickering black.

John Watson may have sworn off hunting years ago, but that didn't mean he didn't know how to protect himself. Beneath him, his fingers closed on a small vial of holy water in his jacket pocket, which he uncorked one-handedly. He blinked calmly up at his attacker before throwing its contents in the demon's face.

The demon overbalanced and fell, howling in pain as his face steamed between his fingers. He collapsed into the legs of the one in charge, leaving only the second lackey to stand in place, looking confused and not at all as menacing as he had only seconds before. John was on his feet in a flash, tearing off the gag and already running.

Ignoring the pain that flared in his ribs with every jolting step and gasping breath, he sprinted down the block, towards what he thought would be a busy intersection. He rounded the corner and would have cursed if he could spare the breath; he'd gotten turned around and the new street was just as deserted as the last. Halfway down the block, he turned his head to see if the demons had reached the corner yet. They hadn't, but he could hear them yelling. Still looking back over his shoulder, his foot caught on a crack in the sidewalk and suddenly he was falling, almost in slow motion. It seemed like forever until his palms hit the pavement and he didn't linger, already stumbling back to his feet.

"John!" Someone seized his wrist and dragged him through an open doorway. He heard the lock click solidly behind him, and a few moments later the sounds of the third demon spitting threats at his lackeys as they went thundering by. John stood very still for another few seconds, hand pressed painfully over his injured ribs as he tried to catch his breath. When he was sure the demons weren't about to turn back and kick down the door, he turned to face his rescuer.

"Molly?"

The pathologist's eyes were wide with surprise; she was dressed in sweats with her hair down as if she'd been just about to go to bed. She wordlessly took in his appearance: the bruised jaw, the way he held his ribs, the vomit stain on his shirt. (The last was all Lestrade's, thankfully, but John was sure it didn't help his image.)

It quickly became clear that Molly was waiting for John to speak first, and so he did. "I-- Thank you. Thanks, really, but-- what are you doing here?"

"I live here."

"Oh." John realized that he'd never thought to wonder where she lived. Somehow he'd just imagined her living at St Bart's. "Thanks for your help, again, but I really should go."

"Let me take a look first," she insisted, pulling him down the hall and into the kitchen. For such a timid person, she was surprisingly strong. She sat him down at the kitchen table and pulled an ice compress from the freezer. "Take off your shirt and hold this to your face," she told him, frowning disapprovingly. How she had mastered the physician's signature "doctor's orders" look without any live patients to practise on John wasn't sure, but he complied nevertheless. His throbbing cheek had just begun to go pleasantly numb when a sharp prod to his injured ribs made him jump.

"Ow, careful," he griped, readjusting the ice compress. "This one's not dead yet." He had the vague sort of feeling that he was being rather rude, but anxiety and a killer headache were one hell of a combo.

"Guess it's true." Molly smiled, seeming mildly amused. "Doctors really do make the worst patients. It's just a bruise."

"Well at least there's one thing going my way tonight." John frowned at his side, where an ugly purplish spot was already spreading across his ribs, and shifted the ice compress from his jaw to his torso.

"I'll just throw this in the washer." Molly held up his vomit-stained shirt. "Hang on, I'll see if I can find anything to fit you while you wait."

"No, I really--" John began, half standing. But she was already out of the room, and he sank back into his chair with a sigh. Something brushed past his ankles and he started in surprise, looking down in time to see a well-groomed tabby disappear in the other direction from his mistress. Jittery and impatient, John listened to the whir of the washer starting, and a few moments later Molly returned with a gender-neutral white button-down.

"Lucky you're small," she told him, passing it over. "It should just fit."

It did exactly that, the fabric straining slightly to wrap around his sturdy frame but buttoning up without too much trouble.

"Really, Molly, thank you," he said, standing. "But I've got to go. I'll return the shirt next time I'm at Bart's." A thought of the power Mycroft Holmes possessed and what a demon could do with that power propelled him out the door and down the street, whistling for a cab.

*

"Sherlock," John called urgently, 221's front door slamming shut behind him. He thundered up the stairs, jacket and shoes still on. "Sherlock!"

He burst through the flat door, causing Clara and Harry to look up in surprise, tangled together on the sofa. The telly was on again, turned down to background noise. The newspaper articles on the Ripper were spread out across the coffee table, along with John's open laptop and a few old books that seemed to be mainly about spells and demons.

"Haven't seen him," Harry said absently, a bit preoccupied with the fingers trailing across her partner's thigh.

"By the way, John, you really want to think about getting some better security for this thing." Clara clicked the laptop shut. "Honestly, a monkey could hack in."

John chose to ignore the prod at his technological skills in favor of nudging the doormat with his foot, checking that the devil's trap he'd inked on the underside was still intact.

"Listen, I've got news," he said, already heading to the kitchen for salt, and the salt rounds he'd hidden under the sink. "And Harry, I need to borrow your phone."

"What's wrong with yours?" she yelled after him.

"It got stepped on." He tossed a canister of rock salt at each of them before moving to lay lines on the windowsill.

"You stepped on it?" she yelped, though she disentangled one arm in order to lob her own mobile across the room at him without further protest. The two hunters finally separated and got off their arses in order to help John to lay the salt lines. "That phone was a gift from your dear sister!"

"I didn't say _I_ stepped on it, did I?" Shaking out salt with one hand and putting in Sherlock's number with the other, he misdialed twice before finally getting it right. His text read:

_> Don't you ever check your_  
> messages, you arse?  
> COME HOME NOW.  
> Don't speak to Mycroft.  
> JW 

To John's surprise, he received a reply before he'd even finished lining a single windowsill.

_> As if I would. SH_

_> I'm serious, Sherlock._

_> On my way. SH_

*

Sherlock hit _send_ and shook his head, scrolling through his text inbox. How many messages had John sent? (The answer, in fact, was fourteen texts and two voicemails, not including the messages he had just received from what was most likely John's sister's phone. By far Sherlock's favorite text was this:

_> Dammit you bastard_  
> I'm drunk and your brother  
> is maybe a murderer.  
> ANSWER YOUR BLOODY  
> PHONE 

All caps indicated urgency, and Sherlock was nearly certain he hadn't done anything in the past twenty-four hours to warrant a row. This led him to the obvious conclusion that John's phone had been lost or destroyed in some sort of struggle in the hour and a half since his last text. Good, the case was finally going somewhere.)

He didn't bother to check the voice messages, assuming that they were all of the same general tone as the texts, but merely put his phone away and walked on. No sooner had he let go, though, than the mobile buzzed out another new text. The caller ID was the same as before -- Harry's phone. John again.

_> Keep to busy streets._

And a moment later:

_> Better yet, get a cab.  
> Be careful._

Though it was only a text, the worry behind it was nearly palpable. Suddenly, the darkness seemed to press a little closer around him, and his legs sped up without bidding. The quickest way back to Baker Street would be to cut through the alley coming up on his left, but John's anxiety lingered deep in the pit of his stomach, and he hesitated.

It was probably nothing but paranoia, Sherlock decided finally. The best way to assuage John's fears was to get home as quickly as possible, anyway. As he turned into the narrow swath cut through the menacingly tall buildings, his phone buzzed yet again. He briefly considered just turning it off, but took it out again anyway.

The brightly lit screen was ruining his night vision, he noticed irritably. The text read:

_> If you're not here in_  
> fifteen minutes I'm  
> coming after you. Clear? 

_> Crystal. SH_

Something moved out of the corner of his eye, just out of reach of the phone's glow. There was the slight scrape of shoe on pavement and Sherlock burst into motion, striking out towards the noise. Half-blind in the darkness, he missed, the figure ducking easily out of harm's way. A second figure, previously unnoticed, emerged from behind to give Sherlock a solid hit to the back of the head. It sent him reeling into the alley wall and he went down, phone clattering away into the darkness.

Through a daze, he half-noticed that his eyes had readjusted to the darkness and that all that was in his line of sight was a scattering of mortar dust, knocked loose likely by his head connecting with the bricks. Unable to make his brain stop working overtime even then, he noted the type of mortar and the year and season in which it had been laid. He touched the numb spot on his scalp, and his hand came away sticky with blood.

High above his head, someone growled, "Doesn't seem so tough. We sure this is the right one?"

"Boss said this one," the other man replied. "Didn't he also say to stay away?"  

"Don't be stupid. When we hand him over to the boss all nice and tidy-like in a neat little bow, see if you'll want to have stayed away then."

He was used to criminals knowing him, of course. In fact they seemed to be making a point of it lately, and so he tuned out the rest of the exchange ( _dull_ ) in favor of studying his attackers now that his night vision had returned in full, albeit slightly fuzzed around the edges. There were two of them, both men, aggressive postures with the classic look of stereotypical thugs-for-hire. All in all, perfectly normal members of the criminal class. He did notice that he couldn't see the whites of their eyes, though that was easily explained by the bad lighting or the knock to the head. He'd need more precise data to be sure.

Suddenly the taller of the two seemed to spasm and collapse. It took Sherlock several seconds to notice the gunshot through the pounding in his ears. A rifle butt came down on the second attacker's head and he fell, too. To Sherlock's dull surprise, the first man began struggling to his feet, despite the ragged hole in his stomach.

"Salt rounds," he growled at the gun-wielding man. "That's just not fair."

"Well now, that's debatable," the man said, giving the first attacker a whack about the head with his rifle butt as well. He began to mutter in a foreign tongue -- Latin, some small portion of Sherlock's brain recognized dimly -- but the pounding in Sherlock's ears grew louder, coming in like high tide and sweeping him out to sea.

*

Sherlock came to to the distant sound of sirens. With some effort, he sat up, noting by the congealing blood on the ground that he hadn't been out for more than five minutes.

To his surprise, the man (Sherlock refused to give him such a trite title as rescuer or savior, and anyway, that was John's job) was still there, arms folded, eyes glaring. Tall, black, American. Even through the haze, Sherlock's brain sped off in a whirl of deductions. Jewish, but not devoutly so; some sort of vigilante, possibly. Older, retired for a while, but back to his old lifestyle now. Something had happened to reintroduce him, and he wasn't particularly happy about it. He favored whiskey, his preferred brand Johnny Walker, and he drank more of it than was probably good for him.

"You just gonna sit there oglin' me all night or you gonna say somethin', boy?"

But Sherlock's mouth didn't quite seem to want to work -- a very new, quite disturbing feeling for him -- and just then his phone buzzed, on the ground near the vigilante's feet. He dove for it, knowing John would make good on his threat to storm the streets of London if Sherlock wasn't home on time.

"Yeah, you're welcome," the vigilante muttered. "Cops are on their way. _I_ ," he emphasized, jerking a thumb at himself, "was never here. We clear?" Before Sherlock could even look up from the bright glow of his phone, the man was gone in the dark.

_> Six minutes._

_> Might be late. I'm  
> okay, not dead yet. SH_

_> WHAT? Sherlock, where_  
> the hell are you? I'm  
> coming to get you. 

_> I'll get a cab. SH_

*

John let out a long breath, softly closing the door to Sherlock's bedroom behind him. He made his way back to the sitting room, where Clara was assembling cloth salt bombs and Harry sat in front of several bottles of water, blessing each in turn. She capped the last one and slipped the rosary back into her pocket, studying John with narrowed eyes. "How is he?"

"He's fine." John shrugged and grabbed an empty duffel from by Clara's feet. "Just a bump on the head. Not even a concussion." He took a shotgun from the table and checked the chambers for salt rounds before slipping it into the bag. "He's had worse, believe me." He dropped a few bottles of holy water after the gun, and started for the door.

"Hey, whoa, where are you going?" Harry yanked the bag out of his grasp as he passed.

"To talk to that bastard Mycroft." He reached for the bag, but she pulled it out of his reach and tossed it across the room to Clara, who stuffed it safely under the sofa.

"Not tonight, you're not." Harry gripped his shoulder and pointed him towards the stairs. "We've already had two attacks tonight. In the morning we'll all go together. Clear?"

John seemed to deflate. "Yeah."

"Good. Now, bed." She jabbed a finger upwards. "I'll kip on the floor; Clara'll take the couch."

"Who d'you think you are, Mum?" he muttered, but obediently shrugged off his jacket and clomped up the stairs.


	2. Act Two - In which Mycroft Holmes is not what you think he is.

**April 3 - TWO**

The clock in the kitchen read 5:36 when John slipped downstairs, shoes in hand, and oh-so-carefully extracted the duffel bag of weaponry from under the sofa, where Clara was curled up under one of Mrs. Hudson's afghans. He edged around Harry, snoring and sprawled out across half the sitting room floor, and snuck out onto the landing outside 221b. With out-of-practise silence, he put on his shoes and hurried down the stairs and through the hallway that led to the front door.

The city was still sleeping, darkness blanketing it like a soft shroud. The air was thick and heavy, the far-off sounds of Central London's nightlife muffled to John's ears as he strolled down the block to find a cab.

It was six o'clock before he arrived at Mycroft's office, the monotonously imposing governmental buildings looming over his head all up and down the street. The first gray fingers of dawn were just stretching into the sky, but he knew Mycroft -- or the thing inside him -- would be hard at work already. He always was, it seemed, and anyway, demons didn't sleep.

He took a gulp of the cool morning air before stepping through the doors and into the sleek, modern lobby. It was empty, elaborate marble beams curving stylishly far above his head, and his footsteps echoed horribly loudly off the flagstones and arched ceiling. It didn't strike him until he was halfway to the elevator that there was no security at all. Suspicious, yes, but considering he had a shotgun in his duffel bag he decided it was best not to dwell on it and turned towards the stairs.

Once on the fifth floor, he had to pause to get his bearings, recalling the twists and turns he had taken from this point the last time he visited Mycroft. It took several minutes of muttering to himself, during which he was even more grateful that the building was practically deserted, but he found the right office eventually, door unmarked and unnumbered. The secretary's desk was empty, but the inner door was ajar, so -- feet silent on the plush carpeting, moving on the balls of his feet just as Harry had taught him -- he let himself in.

Mycroft looked up from his paperwork, and to John's satisfaction a look of what seemed to be genuine surprise briefly passed over his face. "Dr. Watson," he said courteously, quickly regaining his composure. "What brings you here so early?"

"I just wanted to give you something," John said flatly, reaching into his bag as he stepped towards the desk. In a sudden burst of movement, he spilled an open bottle of holy water over the government official's head and drew his shotgun, leveling it with expert hands.

Mycroft hardly reacted, reaching an immaculately manicured hand up to touch the water dripping from his now rather less well-styled hair. There was a suspicious lack of pain and burning happening across the desk, and John's heart clenched. Was this type of demon immune to holy water? Could Mycroft really be that powerful?

With a slight smile, Mycroft stood, hardly seeming to notice the water now soaking into his obscenely expensive-looking leather chair and staining the surface of his mahogany desktop. With a blink, he was instantly dry again.

"I was wondering when you were going to figure me out," he said, inclining his head in John's direction. "I regret to tell you, though, that you do have one thing wrong."

John blinked. He still held the shotgun trained and loaded, though he wasn't sure any more how much good a salt round would do. He very determinedly kept his voice steady. "Oh?"

"Yes. You see, Dr. Watson, I'm not a demon. Quite the opposite, in fact. I'm an angel."

*

Harry woke the next morning to find that she had rolled out from under her borrowed blanket sometime in the night. Groping about blindly for it, her fingers encountered a cool sheet of paper and she drew it towards her, eyes flicking open to read the hasty note in John's easily recognizable scrawl.

_Harry,_  
I'm not getting you two involved in this. If we're lucky, he doesn't know who you are and I want to keep it that way. Don't come after me, don't let Sherlock come after me, and don't do anything stupid. I'll be home soon.  
John  
P.S. Took your mobile. I'll try not to get this one stepped on. 

"You idiot," she growled uselessly at the paper. On the sofa, Clara stirred.

"Who, me?" she mumbled sleepily, reaching out a hand for the note. Harry huffed and passed it over. Clara opened one eye to peer at it, then both, wide awake as she sat up. "That moron," she agreed, frowning. "If the bastard's got half as much influence as John says he has he knew everything about us before we even got here."

"John's gone to see Mycroft," came a voice from the doorway. It wasn't a question. Clara lifted her head and Harry turned to see Sherlock, still in the rumpled clothes of last night, with a bandage wrapped almost comically over his dark curls. "Mycroft is," and here he paused, seeming to repress a wave of dizziness. "Not what I thought he was," he finished finally, white-knuckling the doorframe.

"About right, yeah," Harry said bluntly. Sherlock released the doorframe and slumped into the nearest armchair, head tilting back to look at the ceiling. The hunters' eyes followed his, to the code still inked untidily on the plaster.

"It was a warning," Sherlock said without prompting. "About Mycroft. 'Beware Big Brother.' And the oil." He lowered his gaze again, studying each of the women in turn. "You know what it is? No. But you know more than you're telling. John, too. He wouldn't have gone alone if--" He stopped, seeming to lapse into thought.

Harry and Clara exchanged looks. "He'll be back soon," Harry said finally, leaning back into Clara's legs. "He can take care of himself, our John."

*

“There’s no such thing as angels.” John’s voice fell flat even to his own ears.

“We’ve been very careful to hide our existence from humankind,” Mycroft said calmly. “Ever since the dreadful business with that poor French girl. And, as they say, there are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

“But, _angels_ ,” John protested, not entirely sure what he was protesting. “It’s just -- that’s -- it’s bollocks, is what it is.”

Without warning, Mycroft was suddenly standing not two inches away, toe to toe with John. “Bollocks, is it?” The angel -- for that was certainly what he was, whether or not John allowed himself to believe it -- was still smiling faintly, in a condescending manner that seemed to say, _Look how clever the dog is, it’s learned to roll over._

“I, er--” Suddenly finding himself accepting the existence of angels, John was faced with the dilemma of how to speak to one. Surely there was some biblical law about bowing and scraping in the presence of one of God’s holy messengers? “But, how?”

“How am I standing here without burning you up from the inside out? Mycroft Holmes.” Mycroft -- the thing inside him -- flicked an invisible speck of dirt from his sleeve. “I asked him to lend me the use of his body. He kindly agreed. I don’t think either of us expected things to take so long.”

“You’re . . . possessing him?” John was suddenly filled with disgust. “How long?”

The angel at least had the decency to look faintly guilty. “Approximately twenty-seven of your years.”

“Twenty-sev-- Jesus.” John let out a shocked breath. “And he’s still in there with you?”

“In a sense.”

“Poor bastard.” John shook his head. He hadn’t been expecting to meet an angel in his lifetime, but if he had he wouldn’t have expected him to be like this. “Sherlock doesn’t know?”

“I believe he’s always suspected that his brother was not himself, but no, he knows nothing of Heaven, and I’d like to keep it that way, if you don’t mind.”

"Why do you care?"

"John. You know my brother very nearly as well as I do." The careful use of the word "brother" wasn't lost on John. "If he were to discover the supernatural, do you imagine he'd take any basic precautions without scientific proof of its existence? Even if he were to survive, the discovery of something so inexplicable, completely unquantifiable in any human terms, don't you think it could destroy him? And I must say, I have grown rather . . . _fond_ of Sherlock over the years."

John's mouth twisted with uncertainty. On the one hand, Mycroft had just applied the very arguments John had been giving to himself for six months. On the other, it didn't sit particularly well with his conscience to keep something this personal from his best friend. To cover up his hesitation, though he doubted he did a very good job of it, he said, "So what's so difficult that it takes an angel of God twenty-seven years to finish?"

"Heaven is at war."

"With Hell?"

Mycroft smiled blandly. "Who else?"

John looked back at him, equally blank. Mycroft studied him for a moment longer and continued, "The Antichrist is on Earth. In London, specifically."

"Of course," John muttered under his breath. "So the Antichrist is -- what, half-demon, out to destroy humanity?"

"No, nothing so straightforward, I'm afraid." Hands clasped behind his back, Mycroft turned to stare out the window at the still-dark skyline of western London. "You see, angelic _possession_ , for want of a better term, is not nearly so simple as it is for demons. We require vessels of certain bloodlines, and permission before entering. And Lucifer, for all his ill repute, is still an angel. As is Michael. The Antichrist is the potential vessel of both."

Very slowly, John let the shotgun barrel drift towards the floor as he thought. "The Apocalypse, then."

"Yes."

"That's a new one."

Though John couldn't see it, Mycroft smiled. "Not really."

John wisely decided to let that one pass. "And the jug Sherlock found on the doorstep?"

"An amphora of holy oil. Likely left as a warning by a demon, though how he got hold of it I shudder to think."

"Right." John shook his head, still rather occupied with digesting the concept of actual angels. "I'll be going now." He began to back towards the door, unwilling to turn his back.

"A car will take you home."

"No," John said quite firmly. "The Tube's open by now. I'll walk." Halfway out the door, he paused to add, "The Antichrist. Do you know who he is?"

There was a long pause, which John interpreted as a yes. "Good-bye, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said finally. John left.

*

It was seven o'clock, and the city was just starting to wake up, early-bird commuters making the streets full but not enough of them yet to clog up the works. John walked at a leisurely pace, his mind full of angels and demons. He didn't quite trust Mycroft -- well, the angel, but for sanity's sake John decided to continue calling it by its vessel's name -- but what experienced hunter would, after all? (He wasn't a hunter, though, he continued to remind himself firmly. Not for years, and not now either.) But despite that, the urgency that had been churning in his stomach since Lestrade's drunken blabbing last night had finally abated. His best friend's brother was not in the hands of demons, he thought with relief. The world's entire system of government was also not in the hands of demons. The latter was probably more important.

He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he nearly didn't notice the sound like sunlight screaming that came from behind him, or the blinding white light that lit up the whole street. He turned just in time to see a woman crumple to the ground, a bloody gash across her throat. Burnt black wings stretched across the pavement from either shoulder. Behind the woman -- an angel, now dead, John could only presume -- stood a man with a bloody silver knife gripped loosely in his hand, in a suit so sharp it could cut corners.

"We haven't met," the man said, with a friendly smile that seemed to belie the dead body at his feet, "but I think you've heard of me. My name is Moriarty." With a distasteful look at the bloody blade he held, he knelt to wipe it clean on the dead woman's jacket. "Much better," he said, tucking the knife safely away. He looked up again to see John's shotgun pointed at his heart.

"This is loaded with rock salt," John warned, though with all the confusion lately he wasn't even sure it would do any good. He tried not to let it show.

"John, John." With a wave of Moriarty's hand, the gun went clattering onto the pavement. "I'm disappointed. Do you really think that would be enough for me?" With another smile, this one rather colder, his eyes flickered black.

It suddenly occurred to John that they were standing in the middle of Central London's morning commute with a dead body at their feet and nobody had said a word. He glanced sideways at the passersby, but their eyes slid right over him, and they stepped around him with unerring precision, seeming not to notice.

"Oh, them," Moriarty said dismissively, sharp eyes missing nothing. "Humans. So easy to fool. Bend a light wave here, send out a subconscious avoidance message there, and _voila_! Your very own duckblind.

"Now, about your fine feathered friend Adriel. Though, he goes by Mycroft these days, doesn't he? He's the one that sent this little birdie after you, you know. Question is, though, was it to protect you?" The demon shrugged. "Unlikely. You're only a man. Was it to spy on you? But no," he added with mock surprise, as if the idea had only just occurred to him, "he's got all his fun little toys for that, hasn't he?" Moriarty rolled his eyes at the security camera perched on a building opposite. "So, what could it be?" He spent a moment "thinking", furrowing his brow and exaggerating a bemused expression. The final option was obvious, even to John, and the demon seemed to know it, merely shrugging and moving the topic along. "Anyway, he's told you everything, has he? Given the cat away, game's out of the bag, whatever the kids are calling it these days. Such a shame, I had a nice long speech all planned out for you. Oh well. Chop chop, Johnny, we've got a schedule to keep." He moved. John tried to dodge, but Moriarty was faster. A viselike grip closed on his wrist, and he felt himself sucked into blackness.

*

Sherlock grabbed the mobile impatiently from Clara's hands, calling yet again the contact marked "Harry".

"I'm telling you, Sherlock, he's not answering," Clara said, a hint of impatience creeping into her voice.

"It's noon," Sherlock insisted, throwing the phone down in frustration. "He should have been back hours ago."

"We know." Harry was at the desk, furiously cleaning, assembling, and then disassembling all her guns in turn. "You've been telling us that for hours."

"I'm calling Mycroft," Sherlock declared, reaching for the phone again, but Clara snatched it out of his reach.

"Absolutely not," she said firmly. "That's the last thing we want to do."

Sherlock glared at her for a moment before finally sinking back into his armchair. "You're right," he conceded reluctantly, looking as though the words left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. "We don't want him to know we know."

"Exactly." Harry slammed the clip into her Sig and tucked the handgun under her belt. "I know you're brilliant and all, but leave this to us, okay? We've done this before."

Sherlock's metaphorical ears seemed to prick, and he studied her with interest. "Have you?"

Harry seemed to realize she'd said too much, looking to Clara for assistance. Clara shrugged helplessly.

"What?" Sherlock demanded, leaning forward. "What is it you're not telling me?" He punched the arm of his chair, frustrated that he could quite seem to grasp it. There was something off-kilter, a place where the puzzle pieces of facts didn't quite slot together. And on top of it all John wasn't there to talk things out to. Well, he'd give it a shot. "You're fighters, the both of you. You were raised into it. Not military, you haven't been trained as soldiers. Your weapons are unconventional, even handmade. Both raised by single mothers, met when you were teenagers, no, early twenties. Coworkers, unconventional occupation. Something dangerous. John was in it too, before he quit. No permanent residence for a long time, but Harry is more used to it than Clara. You've been together on and off for several years, got a civil partnership a few years ago but annulled it quite recently, which is why John didn't know about it. Possibly because of Harry's drinking but more likely the catalyst that caused John to leave and join the army. A death? Yes, someone you were all close to. Preventable, theoretically, though no one's fault. Another coworker? No, there's not enough of a hole in your interactions. A parental figure, then, someone who--"

"Stop it," Clara broke in sharply. Sherlock was impressed. Very few people allowed him to go on for so long before cutting him off. Harry was tightly gripping the barrel of her dissembled shotgun, seeming to have forgotten the cleaning rag hanging out the end.

"Then tell me," Sherlock growled, tearing the bandage from his head and throwing it to one side. "Or I'll go out and find John by myself."

Harry and Clara exchanged cryptic looks. "Should we tell him?" Clara asked, seeming torn.

"John didn't want him to know," Harry reminded her, looking very much as if she agreed with the sentiment.

"Yeah, but he's clever, and he knows the city better than we do."

"He's also annoying as shit."

"I'm sitting right here," Sherlock reminded them. Both women ignored him.

"He could help."

"We're just going to tell him everything?"

Clara shrugged.

Harry let out a heavy sigh. "Right. You." She jabbed the shotgun barrel still in her hand in Sherlock's general direction. "Demons are real, we fight them, your brother is one. Any questions?"

Sherlock's eyes briefly glazed over as he retreated to his mind palace, fitting in this last unlikely puzzle piece to the assembly of previously gathered facts. It fit like a glove, which to be honest was a phrase he had never really understood. "No," he said, pulling himself back to the sitting room.

Harry frowned. "Wait, really? Usually people start researching the nearest crazyhouse right about now."

"When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." Sherlock leaned back in his chair, mind racing as he fit new facts into old ideas. "I've never seen any proof that demons do or do not exist. Why would I assume that they don't?"

Clara whistled. "I'm starting to get what John sees in this guy."

"I do have one question, though," Sherlock added. "If there are demons, does that mean angels exist as well?"

Harry and Clara exchanged startled glances. "Of course not," Harry said, rolling her eyes. "Don't be stupid. Come on, I'll teach you the basics."

*

As annoying as Sherlock was, Harry had to admit he was a quick study. In the hour or so since Clara had left to look for any trace of John, he'd already committed all the exorcisms and holy water blessings she knew to memory, and he had the layout of seven different Devil's traps down pat. She was just showing him how to pack salt rounds when the sound of a single pair of feet on the stairs made them pause.

"She didn't find him," Harry said, without much surprise. Sherlock scowled at the empty metal casings in front of him.

The door opened, and Clara stepped through, disappointment written across her face. "No luck," she said, shaking her head. "It was a long shot, anyway," but the encouraging addition didn't cheer anyone up.

"Right," Sherlock said, standing. "I'm going to talk to Mycroft."

"I'm going with you," Harry agreed, shoulders set in determination.

"You're both crazy," Clara said, but she reached for the nearest gun nevertheless. "You said he was practically the British government. We can't take on the British government with three people."

"Three people and a skull," Harry said, pointing at the mantelpiece.

Clara grinned. "Oh, well then. How can we fail? Count me in."

*

"This is it," Sherlock said, already halfway to the front door. Clara grabbed his arm and pulled him back to the curb before turning to Harry, who was studying the layout of the building with expert eyes.

"What do you think?"

"Two exits, lobby full of civilians," Harry observed. "Two staircases and an elevator."

"Let's go," Sherlock said crossly, tugging ineffectually at Clara's surprisingly strong grip on his wrist. They'd let him carry the bag with the salt guns, if only because the security knew him and was less likely to search him, and the weight dragged down at him, knowing he should be helping John with them instead of just lugging them about.

"I say we go in the back door and up the back staircase," Clara said, ignoring him. "Sherlock can get us into Mycroft's office. Jesus, Harry, this is the craziest thing we've ever done."

"It's the last place we know John went," Harry insisted, though all three knew that this was reckless beyond belief. "We going or what?"

They circled around to the back of the building. It was locked, but Sherlock had the key, and had it open in a moment. They were moving on stealth now, and Harry cast a meaningful glance at Clara, who nodded and pulled a can of spraypaint from under her jacket. She tilted her head back to study the ceiling, looking for the optimal spot to place a Devil's trap. Sherlock tapped her shoulder to get her attention and pointed at a particular patch of ceiling that would be easy to reach with the paint while forcing all but the smallest demon to cross it when going up or down the stairs. Clara nodded in thanks and then glanced at Harry, who knelt to give her a boost. One quick vandalism later and they had a functional Devil's trap blocking the way. With the grace of a particularly quiet cat, Clara stepped down from her living stepladder and they continued up the stairs.

The halls were strangely empty for a government building in the middle of the afternoon on a Friday. Harry's eyes darted from side to side warily, but Clara was staring straight ahead, back upright. She looked the very model of a government employee, Sherlock noted, if underdressed.

"This one," he said, pointing to an unmarked door before pushing it open and flouncing inside. He made for the inner door without even sparing a glance for the secretary typing away at her desk.

"I'm sorry, sir, Mr. Holmes isn't in right now," she called after him.

"Of course he is, he's always in." Sherlock marched into Mycroft's office, prepared to either demand an explanation or pull out one of the shotguns in his bag -- whichever the situation required -- but was surprised to find it actually empty, as the secretary had warned. Harry and Clara piled up in the doorway behind him, tripping over the unexpected stop.

"What?" Clara asked, poking Harry irritably in the back. "You're too tall, the both of you."

"He's not here," Sherlock growled, shoving his way back out into the secretary's office. Without looking up from her desk, she smiled slightly, managing to look as if it were only just beyond her dignity to burst out with an "I told you so".

"Okay," Clara said as they returned to the hallway, putting in a valiant effort not to look too crestfallen. "Plan B."

"We have a Plan B?" Harry wondered, for a moment no longer looking as if she were about to punch a wall.

Clara smiled a little grimly. "We do now."

*

"All right." Clara spilled her armful of books across the desk. "It's in here somewhere, so let's start looking."

"What exactly are we looking for?" Harry wondered, pulling one of the leather-bound volumes towards herself. Sherlock had already seized a book of his own and was flipping through it greedily.

"A ritual." Clara's grin was half-mad and more than a little giddy as she began skimming pages. "The most powerful one Mom had."

"Your mother was a witch," Sherlock observed, nose still buried in his book. "As are you."

"Only part-time. Look for a ritual called _Invoco Mortem_."

"Summoning Death?" Sherlock translated, looking far too excited at the prospect.

Clara shrugged. "He's bound to know where John is."

"And something big's definitely going down," Harry said, feeling a swell of pride in her chest for her partner's brilliance. "Demons don't call this much attention to themselves without a reason. Whatever it is, having the incarnation of Death on our side can't hurt."

"As long as we don't piss him off," Clara laughed nervously, and returned to her reading.

They sat in silence for several minutes, the only sound the turning of old, dry pages.

"Found it," Harry announced triumphantly, slapping her hand down on the page. Clara snatched the book from her and gave the ritual a quick scan, making a mental checklist of supplies.

"Pretty standard stuff," she said thoughtfully. "I think we've got almost everything in the car. No, hang on." She got up and brought down the skull from the mantelpiece. "Can I borrow this?"

Sherlock grinned almost as widely as the skull.

*

" _Invoco mortem_ ," Clara chanted, her voice like black silk, " _Te in mea potestate. Defixi. Nunc et in aeturnum._ " She nodded at Sherlock, who leaned forward to light the incense right on cue. There was a flash, and where the bowl had been there stood a pale man, tall and thin, with a silver-headed cane gripped in his skeletal hands.

"Oh, not again," he said.

"Death?" Clara said carefully. He fixed his black gaze on her, and she felt her knees tremble a little as her feet froze in place with the force behind it.

"You're the one that summoned me, are you." It wasn't a question, but the weary irritation in his voice was obvious. "Well, what is it you want? Shall I go kill someone you have a petty grudge against?"

"We want you to find my brother," Harry said loudly, arms crossed. He turned his gaze to her and Clara felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders, stumbling a little and breathing in deeply.

"Your brother." Death seemed fractionally less bored with the whole ordeal. "A name would help."

Sherlock stepped in boldly. "John Watson."

Death turned to him now, and it may have been Clara's imagination but she could have sworn that -- just for a moment -- the Horseman was startled.

"He's being held in a warehouse," Death said finally, though the gaze he had fixed on Sherlock was less annoyed and more fascinated. "At Warbank Crescent and Valentyne Close in New Addington. Now, if you could." He held out his wrist, where an iron shackle flickered in and out of view.

"You're not going to kill us, are you?" Harry asked warily.

If Death had been less dignified he might have rolled his eyes. "Death's honor."

Clara nodded and consulted the book still held in her hands. She muttered the reverse incantation and the shackle disappeared, along with the Horseman himself a moment later.

"Well?" Sherlock said, already zooming in to the location on his phone. "Let's go."

*

"Okay," Harry said, handing out the guns. "I'll take point. Clara, with me. Sherlock, stay at the door and keep watch."

"No."

Harry frowned. "Excuse me?"

"I'm going in," Sherlock declared. "I have the building blueprints memorized and I know how to shoot a gun." He didn't add _John's in there_ , but he may as well have.

Harry scowled. "Look, Holmes, you may be a genius, but--"

"Harry." Clara broke in, shaking her head. "It's all right. I'll keep watch. Sherlock can go in with you."

"Fine." Harry threw up her hands in defeat. "Sherlock and I are going in. Clara, make sure no one but us gets in or out.

"You stay behind me," she warned, turning to Sherlock. "Don't shoot until I do, don't speak, and follow my lead."

"Fine." It was a mark of how anxious he was to get into the warehouse that he didn't stop to argue his orders, though how closely he'd follow them was anyone's guess.

Harry and Clara took out the single demon at the door with practised stealth, a good blow to the head, and a hastily muttered exorcism. "Okay," Harry said, her eyes already a little brighter with the promise of a fight. "Sherlock?"

"Ready." He checked his weapon and nodded, shoulders squared in determination. Very carefully, Harry nudged the door open and slipped inside. Sherlock followed, and then Clara, who propped it slightly ajar behind her. She stood with her back to it, eyes skimming across the interior of the warehouse.

It was all one room -- more of a pit, really -- with the main space a full story below ground level. The door they had entered through opened onto a narrow metal walkway stretching around the entire perimeter of the warehouse. The space was dim and nearly empty, but for John tied to a chair dead center and a handful of demons standing around looking bored.

Harry and Sherlock were already halfway down the metal stairs, and Clara couldn't tell if the demons hadn't noticed them yet or if they were just waiting for the enemy to reach them before attacking. She leaned forward slightly, straining to see better in the dim light, when suddenly a soft hand slipped over her mouth, and a not-so-soft knife was tucked under her chin.

"Hello, Clara, dear," a horribly familiar voice said cheerfully into her ear. "It's me! Long time no see." Her muscles tensed, heart pounding, but he tilted the blade a little closer to her jugular and she stayed very still. "Do me a favor, will you? Don't move, don't speak." The hand and knife disappeared, and the man they belonged to stepped around into her line of vision.

He looked exactly the same as she remembered: a pressed suit, a hint of a smirk lingering about his mouth, and eyes so dark that the only change when they flickered black was the whites. She tried to take a step back, but found her muscles locked in place. _What do you want?_ she tried to say, but found her throat frozen too.

Moriarty smiled in satisfaction. "Ten minutes should do, I think." He sauntered towards the stairs, a man with all the time in the world, but the knife gleamed dangerously in his hand, and Harry and Sherlock had their backs to him as they tried to work out the best way to untie a half-conscious John. Half a dozen more demons slipped soundlessly past Clara, leering silently at her where she stood, and followed their boss down the stairs.

The fight happened exactly as expected, and Clara quickly realized that Moriarty had positioned her there on purpose, forcing her to watch everything as the events unfolded. She wasn't sure she'd have been able to tear her eyes away even if she hadn't been frozen.

She caught a glimpse of Harry, lying in a pool of what seemed to be both demon blood and her own, and the very sight caused bile to rise in her throat. John was on his feet but woozy, one arm dangling limp by his side. The other hand was armed with a broken knife that he wielded with obvious skill, but he wouldn't be able to hold off six demons for long. They were already fanning out, circling to get around behind him. So caught up in the action was Clara that she failed to notice Moriarty and Sherlock melt into the shadows on the far side of the warehouse.

*

"Sherlock," the demon nearly purred. "Join me."

The wall was pressed against Sherlock's back, the demon leaning so close that he could feel warm breath on his face.

"Those people you came here with, they don't care about you. They think you're weak, they think they're better than you. They wanted to leave you behind. Clara up there, she let me walk right past her. Didn't even say a word."

If he strained his eyes, Sherlock could just make out a figure near the door, watching the fight going on below her without reaction. But no, something was wrong there.

"John trusts her," Sherlock said slowly.

"John, John, John!" The demon threw up his hands, turning away in disgust. "You're so enamored with your little pet. But he'll get bored of you. He'll get tired of praising you and picking up after you, and he'll leave. That's what people do, isn't it? They leave. They always leave."

Sherlock said nothing.

"Do you really think he cares for you? He's been keeping secrets from you all this time. He lies to you -- _you_ , the great Sherlock Holmes -- and you're so caught up in him you don't even notice. He never told you about his past; _you_ had to force it out of his sister. Ask yourself, why wouldn't he tell you? Why would he bury it so far down that even you couldn't dig it out? Is it that he doesn't trust you, or that he just. Doesn't. Care."

For the first time in a long time, doubt lodged itself in Sherlock's throat. "He had his reasons," he said, but it sounded unconvincing even to himself.

"I'm sure he did, Sherlock," the demon called Moriarty said soothingly, condescendingly. "But do you really want to stick around and find out what those reasons were? Come with me. I won't lie to you, Sherlock, not like he did. I can give you puzzles, interesting ones. You'll never have to be bored again."

Sherlock hesitated. "I--"

Twin beams of light shot out suddenly from the melée in the center of the warehouse, cutting briefly across the shadows that obscured Moriarty's face. Sherlock switched his gaze just in time to see two demons crumple, and a man standing over them with a palm against each of their foreheads. Moriarty whirled, mouth just opening in surprise and, yes, fear.

"Damn," he said, and vanished.

Before Sherlock could react, the stranger had disposed of the remaining demons the same way, placing a hand on their foreheads and forcing light out through their eyes and mouth. It might have been his imagination, but he could have sworn the man moved from place to place without walking.

"And that's how it's done, folks," the stranger announced to the room at large. Only then did he seem to notice Harry on the ground by his feet. He made as if to step towards her, but John's face twisted into a feral snarl as he leaned protectively over his sister with knife in hand.

"Get away from her, demon!" he spat.

The stranger looked affronted. "Actually, I'm an angel."

"I don't bloody care what you are, just keep your fucking hands off her!"

In a detached sort of way, like a spectator to a sports match (dull, so very dull) Sherlock took note of John's tendency to use more vulgar expressions when under adrenaline-fueled stress.

"FYI, bucko, I'm on your side." John's blade was suddenly in the stranger's hand, whole and pointed safely at the floor. "Your sister's sleeping now. She's perfectly fine." He offered the knife back handle-first, one eyebrow raised. John took it warily but didn't put it away.

Suddenly the stranger's eyes flickered up to the catwalk and he snapped his fingers. "Hey you up there. You can move now. Come on down." Footsteps echoed on the metal stairs and Clara emerged into the light, shotgun leveled.

"I have him covered," she said, voice wavering a little. "John, check her pulse."

Keeping his eyes on the stranger, John crouched to touch two fingers to the base of Harry's jaw. "It's steady," he reported after a moment, and stood warily.

The stranger rolled his eyes. "I told you, she's fine."

"But who are you?" Sherlock asked, stepping forward.

"Oh, sorry. I thought you might know." The man pulled a sweet from his pocket and tossed it into his mouth. The wrapper seemed to vanish on the way. "They call me Gabriel. Sorry you had to start the Apocalypse without me."


	3. Act Three - In which Sherlock Holmes has a Choice.

**Five years ago**

"Robyn's Rathskeller, Mom? Really?"

"What? It's a perfectly legitimate name for a business establishment." Robyn Warner grinned at her daughter, climbing off the stepladder and striding back to admire her handiwork.

"I know we're in England now, Mom, but that doesn't mean everyone's a walking dictionary. How many people do you think know that a rathskeller is 'a bar or restaurant in a basement'?"

"Wales."

"What?" Clara laughed. "What do whales have to do with anything?"

"Wales, Clara, we're in Wales. Not England."

"Ah, whatever." Clara shrugged and stepped through the doorless door frame, passing beneath the newly hung sign. She leaned over the bartop and spent a moment rummaging around under the counter. "Hey, where'd you put the glassware?"

"In the back," Robyn replied as she passed, carrying the stepladder inside.

"Right." Clara slid with agility over the counter and stepped into the back room, where an astonishing number of unmarked cardboard boxes were stacked floor to ceiling. "Dammit, Mom, ever heard of a label?" she muttered under her breath. She flicked out her pocketknife and slit the packing tape on the nearest box.

"Books," she announced to no one in particular, and went to open another box. "More books." A third box and, "Even more books." She stuck her head out into the main room. "Mom, exactly how many boxes of books did you pack?"

"They're spellbooks, honey, leave them be. Cups are in the first stack on your left, third box from the bottom."

"How do you even," Clara said, shaking her head. She cut open the box Robyn had indicated and yes! Cups! She brought them out into the bar -- all right, rathskeller -- together with one of the crates of beer that had been delivered earlier in the day. She had just figured out how to hook up the beer to the tap when a tall, broad-shouldered young woman stepped through the doorless entryway.

"You open yet?" she asked, taking a seat on one of the shiny new barstools.

"Near enough," Clara said with a smile.

"Right then, I'll have a glass of your best single-malt whiskey, fresh out of the bottle, with ice, a lemon, and a green drink umbrella." The customer's eyes sparkled with mischief.

Clara laughed and reached for a glass. "One warm beer, coming right up."

"Ooh, beer. Hey John!" she spun on her stool to yell out the door. "They've got beer!" She came back around in a full 360, pulling herself to a stop by grabbing the bar. "I'm Harry," she said, watching Clara's struggle with the tap mechanism with some amusement.

"Clara. Aha!" she said triumphantly as amber liquid began to pour from the spout. "Damn," she added as it missed the glass completely.

"Not Robyn, then?" the man called John asked, stepping inside just in time to witness the disaster. Rather than following the example of Harry -- who was almost certainly his sister, despite the height difference -- and laughing uproariously, he limited himself to a stifled smile and passed over the stack of napkins that had been placed at the end of the bar.

"No, that's my mom." Clara grinned too, despite herself, and laid out the napkins to soak up the worst of the spill. Careful to place the cup better this time, she poured a glass of lukewarm beer for Harry and then two more, one for John and one for herself.

"Cheers," Harry said with a wink, lifting the glass. "You sure you're old enough to be serving this stuff?"

"I'm twenty-two, thanks." Clara rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

"So," John said, "I couldn't help but wonder -- what's a rathskeller?"

"See, Mom!" Clara yelled out the door triumphantly. "I told you!"

*

"Clara, listen to me." Robyn planted her hands firmly on the bartop and leaned across it to glare at her daughter. "Hunting is-- it's difficult, okay? It's a lonely job."

"I'll ride with Harry." Clara folded her arms, returning an identical glare. "Doesn't sound too lonely to me."

"Forever? Clara--" Robyn stepped out from behind the bar. "You've hardly known her a year. It's a dangerous job. People get hurt."

"You think I don't know that?" Clara growled, voice sharp and bitter. "I grew up watching you pretend you weren't hurt. Pain herbs can only do so much."

Robyn winced. "And that was me with twenty years of experience. Clara, you've hardly been on the right side of a gun in your life, and Harry is--"

"What? Psychotic? Suicidal?"

"Hotheaded." Robyn shook her head. "I was going to say hotheaded. John is more sensible, but he can't always keep her under control--"

"She doesn't need control, she's perfectly fine--"

"--and sooner or later she's going to do something so reckless that she'll end up badly hurt, or worse, and--"

"Stop it, Mom."

"--and I won't let her take you down with her. Do you hear me?"

"Just -- SHUT _UP_!"

The faint echo in her voice was magnified a hundred times by the small stone room. Robyn's mouth snapped shut.

"Oh God." Clara slapped a hand over her own mouth. "God, Mom, I didn't mean to-- Sorry, sorry, I--"

"Peek-a-boo!" A grinning man appeared just behind her mother's shoulder, black eyes glittering.

"What--" Clara began in surprise, but Robyn, still speechless, burst into action, pivoting on the spot to punch the demon's lights out.

Or that's what she tried to do. He held up a hand and her fist stopped dead, still six inches away from his jaw. Black gaze still fixed on Clara, he flicked his fingers lazily, sending Robyn soaring across the room.

"Mom!" Frozen to the spot, Clara's horrified eyes tracked her mother's movement, right up until the moment she crumpled against the far wall. Clenching her trembling fists, she turned back to the demon, who was casually glancing around the rathskeller as if he'd come only for the novelty of it.

"Go away," Clara said, putting all the force she could muster behind the words. She was pleased that her voice hadn't shaken, but she had been hoping to use her voice power, whatever it was.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Clara." The demon smiled. "You've been a very bad girl, hiding from us all this time. England, of course, how clever. No one suspected Robyn Warner would return here, of all places."

"Wales."

"Excuse me?"

Clara gritted her teeth. "We're not in England, we're in Wales."

The demon gazed at her for a moment, a faint smirk playing around the edge of his mouth. "Are we."

"Who are you?" Clara asked, a little bolder now.

"Name's Moriarty. Hi!" He waggled his fingers at her sarcastically. "Yellow Eyes would send his regards, only, ah-- he's dead."

"You work for Yellow Eyes?" Clara didn't know much about the mysterious demon, only what Robyn had told her -- and Clara was sure there was more, though she'd never confronted her about it -- but what she knew was more like a fairytale villain than a real force of evil. "What does he-- do _you_ want with me?"

"Nothing, anymore." Moriarty shrugged. "Game's over, you missed the call. Very disappointing; you could have given that Winchester boy a run for his money. It would have been the most delicious fight." He sighed, shaking his head. "Used to be you were off limits -- boss's orders. But now -- _ding dong, the witch is dead_!" He laughed. "Not literally, of course, Yellow Eyes wasn't so fond of witches. Although--" He cast his eyes, now returned to the host's usual deep brown, towards Robyn's prone figure across the room. "But, point is, I could kill you right now, if I wanted to. I could punch through your chest and pull out your warm, beating heart for you to see." He leaned closer, dark eyes mesmerizing and sharp on his pale face. Clara felt frozen, heart beating in her throat.

"But I won't." The demon pulled back, breaking the moment. "I'm just _so_ changeable, after all. Have a nice day, my dear. We're going to have _such_ fun." With an icy smile, he disappeared.

*

"Why does he keep doing this?" Clara's voice was nearly a shriek, fingers tangled in long auburn hair. "Why won't he just leave me alone?"

"Clara." Harry pushed her forcefully down onto the motel bed and gripped her wrists tight, pulling them down into her lap. "We'll figure something out, okay, I mean it. He can't keep this up forever. Let's get you cleaned up, yeah?" Crouching in front of her, Harry carefully peeled back Clara's ruined sleeve to reveal the long gash along her forearm.

"Why not?" Clara wailed. "We can't stop him. He's been after us for weeks -- he killed my _mother_!"

"I know." Harry looked her squarely in the eyes. "Honey, I know. We will _work it out_."

"He's toying with us, that's all." Grimly, John passed over the med bag. "He'll get bored eventually. Do you want me to--?"

"No," Harry said firmly. "I'll do it." She looked up at her brother, whose brow was furrowed in concern. "Could you go get us some coffee? Decaf for Clara here, I think she's got all the stimulants she needs."

"Yeah. Yeah, of course." John backed out of the room, pocketing his wallet on the way.

The door had hardly clicked shut behind him when Clara burst out, "I can't take this much longer, Harry, I haven't slept in days and he won't stop and I _can't_ \--"

"I know," Harry said again, but all the care was gone from her voice, and a wicked grin crept across her face. "Trust me, I know," she repeated, eyes flickering black.

"Oh God--" Stomach turning to lead, Clara scrambled backwards on the bed until she hit the headboard, as if the space between provided some sort of protection.

The demon -- Harry -- the demon considered for a moment. "Not quite."

Clara suddenly felt very small and very tired. Looking at not-quite-Harry's twisted face, she felt something fragile deep within her simply fall limp.

"What do you _want_?" she whispered, unable to tear her eyes away. "I'll do anything, just -- just leave us alone, all right?"

The black eyes were gone now, but the coldly calculating look seemed wrong on Harry's face. "Anything," Moriarty said thoughtfully, mouth curving in wicked glee. "Just to leave you alone?"

"Yes." Clara nodded fervently, resolve built of desperation. "And -- you can't get any other demons to come after us either. You -- want my soul, right?"

"Your soul?" Moriarty smiled. "That old thing. How cliché. No, I don't want your soul."

"What, then?"

"Oh -- well, it's a little unconventional, I know, but I think we can make this work out. At some point in the future, I'm going to come and . . . ask you to do something for me. Just a small thing, a quick favor. And you'll never see me again."

"You won't -- ask me to hurt anyone?"

Moriarty looked slightly offended. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Clara took a deep breath. "Right, then." Looking uncertain, she held out a wavering hand to shake.

"Oh no, Clara. Demon deals are never sealed that way. It's far too easy to forge loopholes. How about a kiss?" Without waiting for consent, Moriarty swooped in.

For all that there was a demon in there, it was still Harry's body, and Clara found herself momentarily disappointed when the kiss quickly ended. The demon pulled away and Harry's mouth dropped open, allowing the demon to stream out in crackling black smoke. It vanished, and Harry crumpled.

"Harry?" Clara asked, though it came out more like a croak. "Harry," she repeated more loudly, heart squeezing in worry. Muscles unfreezing, she scrambled to the floor to kneel at the hunter's head. Shallow breath warmed her hand, but she hovered anxiously, not sure what to do.

"What--?" John stood at the door, cardboard tray of coffees in hand. Harry stirred, probably roused by the sharp scent.

"It's over," Clara murmured, turning wide eyes on John. A tiny voice in the back of her mind screamed that she had _just made a deal with a demon_. "I . . . I exorcised him. Sent him back to Hell. Moriarty is gone."

*

**Present day**

Clara finished speaking and finally lifted her gaze from the floor, allowing her eyes to dart around the room and gauge the group's reactions. John was slumped in an armchair, looking like this was the icing on a triple-tier cake of a very long day. Sherlock stood behind him, looking as though he was making enormous effort not to hover anxiously. Harry was in the other armchair and listening intently, looking as if she could jump up and run a marathon at a moment's notice, even though Clara was positive she had seen her badly injured, or worse, on the warehouse floor not an hour previously.

The apparent reason for that, Gabriel, was across the room leaning casually against the wall, paying more attention to the ice pop he had materialized out of thin air than to her story.

"No."

Everyone, including Gabriel, turned to look at Sherlock, who had stepped out from behind John's chair.

"What?" Clara asked, feeling exhausted.

"I said 'no'." Sherlock looked a little angry. "This is insane. You can't--" He took a deep breath.

"Sherlock," John said warningly, standing and putting a hand on his friend's shoulder. "If Clara says . . . what she says, then I'm sure she's not lying." But the doubtful look he cast in her direction seemed to slice straight to Clara's soul. She deserved it. She'd just proven she'd been lying to him, and to Harry, and to everyone, the whole time.

"No!" Sherlock insisted, pulling away from John. "I've been extraordinarily accepting of all this, and given what I've witnessed today I'm fully prepared to regard it as fact that demons exist -- and angels, apparently --" He cast a doubtful look towards Gabriel, who was down to the stick on his ice pop and carefully licking around it. The angel paused to wave cheerily. Sherlock turned back to Clara. "But you can't seriously expect me to believe in mind control through _voice_!"

"Hey," said Harry, rising from her own seat and stepping between Sherlock and Clara. "I don't give a crap about what you expect me to expect, I just want you to not get us all bloody killed because you don't know what you're facing!"

"No, please," Clara protested. She couldn't believe Harry was still defending her. She edged over on the couch to look up at Sherlock. "You want proof, science boy? Real, incontrovertible proof?" There was a raw edge to her voice, part shame, part exhaustion, and part just being fed up with the whole damn world.

Sherlock nodded.

"Well, fine then," said Clara. She closed her eyes, letting her anger well up and trying to remember the feeling she hadn't had in almost four years. "Then SIT DOWN."

"See, I told you there's no such thing," Sherlock started to say, still standing defiantly in the middle of the room. But he was interrupted by the soft thump of Harry collapsing onto the couch. He glanced behind him, to where John was quivering with the strain of keeping his knees locked, grabbing onto Sherlock's wrist so hard it almost hurt.

Gabriel vanished his popsicle stick with a flick of his fingers. He met Sherlock's confused glance with one raised eyebrow and shrugged. "The girl's got talent."

"STOP IT!" Clara cried, and this time Sherlock could hear a faint echo in her voice. "Stand or sit or . . . whatever!"

John actually fell forward, like a tug-of-war player whose opponent abruptly stops trying. Sherlock caught him, and absentmindedly settled him back into the armchair. Harry sprang to her feet, staring at Clara, but Sherlock beat her to the punch.

"That's--"

"Impossible," Clara breathed, finishing Sherlock's sentence. They stared at each other. "Why didn't you sit?"

"Why did they?"

"Because," said Gabriel, stepping forward with an impressive eyeroll, "she drank demon blood as a baby, and he's--" He stopped abruptly, looking as though a sour taste had crept into his mouth.

"He's what?" demanded John.

Gabriel's mouth contorted silently. Then he grimaced irritably and took a moment to suck on a newly-manifested lollipop. "I can't say."

"Why not?" Harry demanded, in exactly the same tone of voice as her brother. Out of the corner of her eye, Clara noted the slight twitch of her fingers towards the place where her hip flask used to hang.

"It's the Rules," explained Gabriel unhelpfully. "I can't-- any supernatural being can't, literally can't, tell--" He broke off again.

"Could you write it down?" Sherlock inquired logically.

"No," said Gabriel shortly. "You muttonheads don't get it, I can't _tell_ y--" He paused, and began choosing his words more carefully. "You know most of it already. Mycroft, your brother, is the vessel of an angel -- Adriel, specifically, who's like, well, like the Mycroft Holmes of Heaven. He usually doesn't like to get his wings dirty, which is why it caused enough of a stir that even I heard about it when he--" He stopped again, shaking his head in frustration. "Moriarty is a demon, a powerful one. He was second-in-command to Azazel, who was the interim King of Hell up until a few years back. After that he went under the radar. The point is, they're here because . . . look, you know what angels and demons typically fight over, right? Biblically?"

"Human souls," replied Sherlock promptly.

Gabriel opened his mouth to answer, then just nodded.

"They're fighting over me." It wasn't a question.

The angel pointed his lollipop at Sherlock in triumph. "Tell him what he's won, Bob."

A downcast sort of silence settled over the group as they digested the new information. From outside the door, there was a clatter and a short knock. Without waiting for a response Mrs. Hudson bustled in, setting her tray of tea and biscuits down on the coffee table. "Just call if you need anything else, dears," she said kindly, noticing with no small concern the dispirited looks on all their faces. Except for the man leaning against the wall, at whom she shot an admonishing glance and warned, "And don't eat all the biscuits yourself, Gabriel. You need to learn to share sweets." Then she left, calm as if she addressed archangels as five-year-olds every day.

John looked up, curious despite himself. "When did you meet Mrs. Hudson?"

"Um . . ." Gabriel took the lollipop out of his mouth for a considering moment. "1963? She's a great old dame."

*

John was halfway out the door when Sherlock grabbed him and pulled him back, letting Harry and Clara file out ahead of them. Gabriel raised an eyebrow and vanished, presumably to wait on the street outside.

"What, Sherlock?"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock's expression was a mixture of anger and betrayal.

John looked confused for a moment, then sighed. "Because I knew I would have a hard time convincing you. And because it's _dangerous_ , Sherlock! Look what's happened already!"

Sherlock scowled. "Since when has danger ever stopped us?"

"Harry nearly died, Sherlock, and that's not unusual. I lived that life for twenty years, and now I'm out, and I'm not too bloody keen on dragging you, of all people, back into it!" By the end, John's voice had raised into a shout.

"' _Me_ of all people'? What do you mean by that?"

"You have absolutely no common fucking sense, that's what!"

"I do, too!"

"Sherlock, you summoned Death. Bloody Horseman of the bloody Apocalypse capital-D _Death_."

"That was different. You were in danger!"

There was a brief period of awkward silence, during which John seemed to deflate. "Oh," he said quietly.

Gabriel suddenly appeared between them. "You two knuckleheads done with your lovers' spat yet, or should I tell them to wait a little longer?"

John shook his head and turned away, shooting Sherlock an unfathomable look as he stomped out the door.

*

The cab ride to St. Bart's was a short one -- about fifteen minutes in light traffic -- but to Harry the awkward silence seemed to drag on forever. Sherlock seemed perfectly comfortable to stare out the window in silence, but Harry quickly began to wish she had made Clara escort him to look at corpses, rather than letting Gabriel whisk her and John off to God only knew where to gather information and supplies. No, scratch that, Gabriel didn't seem the type of angel to let his Father know where he was going.

"Is he okay?" she asked finally, shattering the silence like glass. "After the army, I mean, I haven't had a chance . . . " She trailed off, finding it was easier than continuing to trip over her own tongue. Sherlock turned his head to look at her, seeming satisfied by what he saw.

"He's handling it," Sherlock said, but now looked as though he had a question of his own squirming in his gut. "What was . . . I thought, I thought I knew everything important about him, his past. And, I don't, and I need--" He stopped, looking raw and open.

"I think," Harry said slowly, even sympathetically, "I think there are some things he needs to tell you himself."

For the rest of the ride, the silence was a little less awkward.

*

"Molly, I need to see the Ripper bodies."

The pathologist looked startled, and busy, halfway between a body and the scales with a human heart in her hands. "What, all of them?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, all of them, and quickly, if you could."

"I thought you weren't on the Ripper case." She placed the heart carefully in the scales and made note of the reading. "I'm almost done here, could you wait a minute?"

"Fine," Sherlock complained, barging out of the autopsy room.

A few minutes later Molly came hurrying out, clipboard in hand. "They're down this way," she said, as if he needed directions around Bart's. Her eyes fell on Harry with curiosity and a hint of something else. "Who's this, then?"

"I'm Harry," the hunter introduced herself as they hurried after Sherlock. "John Watson's sister."

"Oh, yes, he's mentioned you."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Has he?"

"Not really." Molly laughed nervously and held open the morgue doors. "Go on in."

Three bodies were already laid out on slabs, draped with the conventional white sheets. Molly began pulling out select morgue drawers. Harry felt cold, and not just from the refrigeration.

"These are the bodies from the third attack," Molly said. There were ten in all, three on slabs and seven in their drawers. "They all have these squiggles cut into their lower abdomens. It's like a code, I guess, but they're no characters I've ever seen." She carefully folded one of the sheets back to reveal one of the symbols, carved into the bloodless skin with wide, sure strokes. "They were definitely post-mortem, though."

"Yes, thank you, Molly." Sherlock waved her away impatiently, leaning in to more closely examine the cuts. Molly came to stand by Harry, looking resigned to Sherlock's ingratitude.

"Where is John, anyway?" she asked.

"Oh, he's." Unable to come up with a decent lie, Harry waved a hand vaguely. "Out. I thought I'd tag along, but being third wheel to a corpse isn't exactly what I had in mind."

"Yes, he gets a bit into things. We'd best leave him to it."

"I'm starved. Is there a place to eat around here?"

Molly looked surprised. "You still have an appetite after that?"

Harry shrugged, smirking. "Let's just say we Watsons have strong stomachs."

"Right." Molly smiled a little, looking marginally less jittery. "Cafeteria's this way. I'll take you."

They chatted comfortably as they walked, which stood in sharp contrast to the cab ride over. The cafeteria was empty when they reached it, the food laid out behind angled spit-guard plastic in a self-serve buffet. Harry took one of the grungy plastic trays and a slightly less grungy plate and helped herself, loading generous portions when she realized that her last meal had been picking over cold leftovers for breakfast while they waited for John to return their calls that morning.

"Is the place usually this empty?" Harry wondered, coating her spaghetti liberally in sauce.

"There's a bigger cafeteria on the ground floor and another on the third. Only us pathologists use this one." Molly laughed nervously, helping herself to a small portion of some unidentifiable meat-like substance that Harry had skipped altogether. "Too close to the morgue for everyone else."

"Three cafeterias for one hospital? Don't you think that's a bit-- whoops!" Turning away from the counter, Harry had accidentally elbowed the tray of salt and pepper shakers at the end of the line, sending them spilling all over Molly and her food. The pathologist leapt back with a cry.

"Sorry," Harry started to say, then realized the cry had been more pain then surprise. Her knife was out and against the pathologist's jugular before she had even fully registered the steam rising from Molly's arms.

"Go ahead," Molly spat, doing a full one-eighty personality-wise in about three seconds flat. "Slit the pretty little pathologist's throat." Her eyes flickered black, and she actually leaned forward into the knife a little, so the finely-honed blade pressed into her skin but didn't draw blood. "What's it to you, just one more death." Demon-Molly grinned. "Oh, but you _like_ this body of mine, don't you? I know you've been craving more than Clara can give ever since she made you quit drinking. Go on, have her. I won't stop you. It's not like you and Clara are exclusive or anything; where's the harm? You can do whatever. You. Want."

Very slowly, Harry lowered her knife. "Here, catch," she said suddenly, tossing it handle-first. Catching it reflexively, the demon immediately let it clatter to the floor with a snarl of pain, palms blistering.

"Iron-plated hilt," Harry said by way of explanation, and punched her in the jaw. Demon-Molly staggered, catching herself on the buffet counter, and Harry took the opportunity to begin muttering an exorcism under her breath. The demon shrieked in protest and lunged towards her, but was repelled by a well-aimed saltshaker to the face. Harry finished off the exorcism breathlessly and the demon threw her head back, opening her mouth in a silent scream as black smoke rushed out of her throat and vanished through the cracks under the door. Now demon-free, Molly collapsed.

The first thing Harry did was check for a pulse, thick fingers fumbling on the pathologist's neck. Molly looked very small now, Harry couldn't help but notice, weak and pale and vulnerable on the cafeteria floor. "Come on, please," she muttered out loud, and finally -- yes! -- felt a weak, thready pulse under her fingertips. "Thank -- whoever," she said to empty air, standing. She threw open the door and yelled, "What does it take to get a bloody doctor in this place?"

Figuring that should get the attention of someone, at least, she pulled out her phone and dialed Sherlock's number before remembering John mentioning that the arse never answered phone calls. She texted him instead.

_> Cafeteria. Molly. Emergency._

A moment later:

_> Busy. SH_

_> Stop wanking over dead bodies_  
> and come help your friend who  
> has just been dispossessed of  
> a demon, you prick. 

*

With a sigh, John shut off his mobile -- no longer broken, thanks to Gabriel -- and slid it away. "I've got nothing," he said ruefully. "Not many London contacts to begin with. You?" He looked hopefully at Clara, who shook her head.

"No one I can get in touch with has even heard of Moriarty. I even tried some of Mom's old contacts; no one's come across him in America either."

"No one who's lived to tell about it, anyway," John said gloomily.

"Shut up, John. Pessimism gets us nowhere."

"Yeah." John shook his head. "I've got a couple London addresses. It's been a while, but there might still be someone home."

"That's more like it." Clara grinned, pulling out a jangling keyring. "Harry left us the car; we can--"

"Nope!" Gabriel appeared suddenly in the middle of the room, swinging Clara's keys around on his finger. "Sorry, change of plans. Hang on tight, kiddos, it's gonna be a bumpy ride." He stepped forward and touched two fingers to each of their foreheads--

John stumbled, wondering how the ground had just slammed into his feet when he'd never lifted them off it in the first place.

"Whoa," Clara said. "Isn't that a rush." She paused. "Where are we?"

"Sioux Falls, South Dakota," Gabriel announced. "Home of the Hillbilly Hunters and also some people who don't know I'm alive, so keep it down."

They were in the middle of the road outside a scrap yard -- Singer Salvage, according to the sign. There was a house just in view behind stacks of smashed-up cars.

"I've been here before," Clara said slowly, but her look around was interrupted by Gabriel vanishing and then reappearing on the back porch of the house, waving impatiently for them to get a move on. The hunters exchanged a look and hurried to catch up to Gabriel, who already had the door unlocked and opened by the time they arrived.

"What took you so long?" he said, shooing them inside. The back door opened to a kitchen that looked like it hadn't had a decent scrub in about a decade, but if the ancient books left abandoned on various surfaces were any indication was probably very well-stocked with salt.

"What are we looking for?" John whispered, but before Gabriel could answer there was the ominous sound of a shotgun being pumped.

"I'm warnin' ya, I ain't afraid to blow your fool heads off," came a gruff voice from behind them. "Now turn around real slow."

"Bobby!" Gabriel exclaimed with mock enthusiasm. "How long's it been, what, three years? Missed you in Indiana last year. Boys and I had a killer time."

"Gabriel." The man called Bobby lowered his gun with some reluctance. "How many times you gotta be killed 'fore you stay dead?"

John still had his hands up, eyeing the shotgun with some trepidation, but Clara was studying Bobby's face, recognition dawning.

"I know you," she said, taking a step forward. "I'm Clara Warner."

"Oh yeah, Robyn Warner's kid. Ain't heard from her in five, six years now. Heard she moved to England." Bobby seemed marginally less hostile, shooting an amused look at John. "You can put your hands down, son. I ain't gonna shoot you." John did.

"So, Gabriel." Bobby returned to glowering at the angel. "You ain't here for fits 'n' giggles, so what exactly do you want?"

"Your demon knife. The kiddos here are having some trouble back in good ol' London town." Gabriel inclined his head in John and Clara's direction.

"What kinda trouble we talkin' here?"

"Aah, Apocalypse-level? Give or take."

Surprisingly, that didn't seem to phase the veteran hunter at all. He crossed his arms. "What's stoppin' you from zappin' it outta our hands?"

"Can't get a fix. It's those sigils Castiel burned on your boyos' ribs. Gotta hand it to the little bro, he's one clever sonouvabitch."

"Which is why you came to me."

"Well, no." Gabriel held up an open book that had just spontaneously moved from the table to his hand. "You're boning up on wendigos. There's only one wendigo feeding right now, in the woods in West Virginia. Problem solved, no help needed."

"Boy, you ain't been in touch with anythin' lately, have you?" Bobby snagged the book from the angel's hand and put it aside. "They ain't comin' to me with research these days. Dean's out, an' Sam's got new partners. I was gonna put Garth on the wendigo, but if you're volunteering--"

Gabriel rolled his eyes and flickered out of view, reappearing not a moment later a few feet away from where he'd started. "Some campers are gonna have a roaring bonfire tonight," he said, popping a toasted marshmallow into his mouth. "So, where is it?"

Bobby snorted and unstrapped the knife from his own belt, offering it hilt-first to Clara. "Don't lose it, hear?" he warned. "I'm gonna be needin' that back eventually."

"Got it." Clara smiled in thanks, tucking the knife safely away under her jacket. "Hey, have you ever heard of a demon called Moriarty?"

Bobby thought for a moment. "Can't say I have. Someone who might, though: demon named Crowley. King of the Crossroads, wily little bastard. Not someone you want t' get on the wrong side of, but he generally ain't too fond of Armageddons. Might be willing to help you out. I bet your ma taught you a summoning spell or two?"

"Yeah, loads. Thanks a lot, Bobby."

"What I'm here for. Say, you Brits need any help over there? My résumé in Armageddon-snuffing is chock-full."

"Hello-o, archangel over here." Gabriel waved in annoyance.

Clara ignored him. "Thanks, Bobby, but we'll call if we need anything."

"Right. You take good care of that knife, now, and try not t' end the world."

"Will do." She looked expectantly at Gabriel, who reached out and--

"Jesus," John grumbled, slumping into the nearest armchair. "Still not used to that."

Clara had the knife out again, examining the engravings with interest. "What's this for, anyway?"

"It's a demon-killing knife. Kills demons." Gabriel pulled a paper bag out of nowhere and held it open to them. "Jelly baby?"

*

"Molly? Really?" John shook his head. "Is she all right?"

"Yeah. She's still unconscious, probably possessed for a while now, but I don't think the demon ever brought her to the front lines, thank-- uh, someone." Harry looked sideways at Gabriel, who shrugged indifferently.

"Don't look at me, I ain't getting all high and mighty about taking Dad's name in vain. He never really gave a vamp's ass about it either, by the way. That was all you guys."

"Right. Well, hopefully she'll keep the whole thing quiet when she wakes up. Maybe we'll even get some intel out of her."

"I still can't believe -- Molly, really." John sighed. "Poor thing. How did you figure it out?"

"I, um." Harry looked sheepish. "I knocked a tray of saltshakers into her."

Clara laughed, clapping her partner on the shoulder. "Good old Harry. You can always count on her to save the day by being clumsy."

"Yeah, good thing you wormed your way out of dance class when we were little, eh?"

"Shut up, John. So, what have you two been up to? Exorcised any demons lately?"

"Better." Clara pulled out Bobby's knife and set it on the coffee table between them. "Kills demons. Poof, gone."

"You're joking." Eyes wide, Harry picked it up with no small amount of reverence, and held it up to the light. "The hell'd you find this?"

"Hunter in South Dakota lent it to us."

Gabriel cleared his throat pointedly, propping his feet up on the coffee table.

Clara rolled her eyes. "Gabriel helped."

"Think he's got any more demon-killing weapons stashed away somewhere I could use?" Harry wondered, setting it down carefully as if afraid it might break.

"I dunno, but you keep that one. I've been practicing." Clara tapped her temple with a wink.

"Really?" Harry leaned forward eagerly. "Can I see?"

Clara looked sideways at Gabriel, who waved a hand lazily. "No statute of limitations from me, sweetheart."

"Right then. Here goes nothing." With an anxious grin, Clara turned to narrow her eyes at the small side table by the sofa. A minute ticked by with no effect.

"Sorry," she muttered, readjusting herself in her seat. "I just have to get a grip on the -- ah!" Without warning, the table suddenly zipped sideways and crashed into the wall, shattering the lamp it held. "Damn it, sorry--"

John grinned. "No, it's all right. Never liked that lamp anyway. I'll get the dustbin." He started for the kitchen, but Clara held him back.

"Wait, let me." With a flick of her eyes, the shattered pieces lifted off the floor and dropped themselves squarely into the bin.

"Fascinating." Alerted by the noise of the table, Sherlock emerged from his room just in time to catch the second demonstration. He had locked himself in there along with his mobile and John's laptop upon returning from Bart's,. "The excess kinetic energy must be coming from somewhere, some sort of fuel, a mineral perhaps--"

"No, it's just willpower. If I believe I can do it, then I can." She shrugged. "According to Gabriel, anyway."

"That is the most idiotic premise I have ever encountered," Sherlock declared, then spun dramatically on his heel and locked himself into his room again.

John frowned. "It's all a bit much for him, I think."

Gabriel got to his feet and clapped his hands sharply. "Come on, kiddos, let's get this show on the road. It's demon-summoning time."

"What?" Harry was startled, though she got up and began helping John clear the desk. "We're not summoning Moriarty, are we?"

Gabriel snorted, and Harry raised an eyebrow. "Something to say, angel face?"

"No, no. I was only thinking that summoning Moriarty here for a final showdown would only be slightly less incredibly dangerous than what your brother and girlfriend are insisting we do." He smiled sardonically and vanished, reappearing a moment later at the back of the room. "But don't let me stop you. Crowley's only the King of Hell."

"Who is what now?" Harry turned to glare at Clara, who shrugged and began pulling candles out of a bag. She also fished out two pieces of chalk and tossed one to John, who knelt to lay a Devil's trap on the hardwood.

"Bobby gave us the name. Says he's anti-Apocalypse, and we need intel. Anyway, Gabriel can handle him, right?" She directed the last words at the angel himself, though she didn't look up from the chalk lines she was sketching between the candles.

"I warned you against this," Gabriel drawled. "He goes hellfire on your asses and I'm not lifting a finger to help you."

"Uh huh." Clara found a bowl and began to measure out herbs and incense, layering them carefully.

"Yoo hoo." There was a sharp rap on the door and Mrs. Hudson peered inside. "Are you all quite all right, dears? I heard a crash, and -- ah." Her eyes fell with mild displeasure onto the thick lines John had just finished chalking onto the floor. "I do hope you're planning to clean that up, Dr. Watson. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."

John winced. "Of course, Mrs. Hudson."

"Very good, dear." The kindly old landlady smiled. "And do be careful, will you? Tricky business, this black magic." She backed out of the flat, shutting the door behind her.

"Right," Clara said, making the executive decision to ignore the interruption. "I think we're about ready. Harry, have you got any matches?"

"Ah - yep." Harry dug around in her pockets for a moment before coming up with a matchbook she'd swiped from a motel counter somewhere. "Here."

"Thanks." Clara grinned a little giddily, like she always did just before performing a spell or doing something incredibly dangerous. She closed her eyes and began to chant in smooth, rapid Latin, moving so quickly that the only word of it Harry could catch was the demon's name, inserted several times into appropriate places in the ritual. She paused briefly to slice her palm with a penknife, letting a few drops of blood dribble onto the herbs. " _Et ad congregandum eos coram me,_ " she finished, dropping a lit match into the incense bowl. It flared briefly, emitting a cloud of smoke, and when it had cleared, there stood a well-suited man with a glass of whiskey in his hand.

"Bugger," he swore. "Where in the name of Satan's hairy bollocks did you lot get my name from?"

"Are you Crowley?" Clara was cautious, eyes flickering down to the chalk lines at the demon's feet.

"Yes, darling, I am. Do you know what else I am? The bloody King of Hell!" he roared, surging towards them before noticing the chalk lines at his feet. "Bollocks."

"We need information," John said, stepping forward. "About a demon called Moriarty."

"Yeah? I'll tell you where you can stick that information, mate."

There was a sudden, amplified clang as Gabriel dropped his pie fork on the floor. "Sorry," he said with a wicked grin. "Go on."

Crowley glowered, but seemed more subdued. "Funny, you don't see many archangels hanging about your type these days," he commented to Clara, putting on a more causal air.

Harry's shoulders tensed in anger, but Clara met his gaze evenly. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, please. Even if I couldn't sense all the power packed in that pint-sized noggin of yours, old Yellow Eyes' scent is all over you. I'm not a black-eyes fresh off the rack; I can put two and two together. What do you want with Moriarty?"

"That's none of your business," John snapped. "What do you know?"

"I know he's been a pain in my arse ever since I took charge. He keeps roping my demons into his little schemes, getting them sent back below in tatters. It's ages before I can use them again. He's been planting demons around your little friend there--" he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the door to Sherlock's room "--for years now."

"We noticed," Harry muttered darkly.

"So I'll ask you again: what do you lot want with the little bastard?"

John and Clara exchanged a look. She shrugged. "He's going to let Lucifer out of his prison," John said to Crowley.

"He's still doing that? But -- bollocks!" he swore again, realizing that he was still trapped. "Would you mind letting me out now?"

"Do you know where it's going to happen?" Harry pressed, stepping a little closer. The demon knife in her hand glinted dully.

"All right, fine! The Cage might -- _might_ \-- open at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning, at Trafalgar Square. Happy?"

Clara nodded at Harry, who reluctantly smudged the chalk line with her boot. She blinked, and the demon was gone.

*

Sherlock would never again admit it -- later, he would vehemently insist that John had slipped sedatives into his tea -- but that night, he fell asleep with no urging or nagging from anyone at all.

The trouble with sleeping regularly, he reflected, not yet caught up in the black water already swirling through the more rickety halls of his mind palace, was that it allowed for his subconscious to remain active enough to attempt to drown him in dreams. This REM cycle was no exception, and as the water level rose and the surface finally closed above his head, he didn't even bother to hold his breath.

A moment later, long fingers closed over his upper arm, and he was pulled out of the water to be suspended over the dark surface with inhuman ease.

"So this is what you dream about," Mycroft said, swinging Sherlock easily into the little wooden boat. "Fascinating. Even asleep you continue to be unusual."

"And even when I'm asleep you continue to be an overbearingly interfering cherub."

"I see the truth hasn't made you any more disposed towards liking me."

"Did you expect it to?"

"I find that often, Sherlock, you will do exactly the opposite of what I expect."

They didn't speak for a while, as the fragile old dinghy bobbed at its own leisurely pace down flooded corridors and through rooms awash with information misplaced by the tide.

Finally, Sherlock spoke. "It won't work, you know."

The angel didn't blink. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"I won't join you. Humanity may be nothing but a crowd of idiotic sheep, but I am, loathe as I am to admit it, one of them." His eyes narrowed. "As was my brother, once. May I speak with him?"

Not-Mycroft contemplated him calmly for a moment, hardly reacting as the boat tipped over a steep incline that had once been stairs. "I believe you misunderstand my intentions. Heaven is not out to destroy humanity. We are trying to save them."

"You're avoiding the question," said Sherlock firmly, as the little rowboat bobbed down the hall and washed out the door. Rare London sunlight glinted off the brass-plated numbers as the door swung shut behind them.

"Your brother," the angel said, tapping the floor of the boat with his umbrella tip, "is, for lack of a better word, damaged. His consciousness has been tied to my Grace for three decades. The human mind can not imagine the implications."

"And you want me to accept the same fate for myself," Sherlock remarked. "For the sake of a battle that isn't mine."

"If there is one thing I've learned about you, _little brother_ , it's that you very rarely fight battles that are your own."

In silence, they turned off Baker Street, though neither was steering.

This was a dream, after all, though, and the boat wafted into the flooded Trafalgar Square what felt like moments later. It bobbed to a stop beside Nelson's statue on its submerged pillar. "I believe this is your stop, Sherlock." The angel raised an eyebrow pointedly and Sherlock stood, stepping out of the dinghy as if there were a solid wooden pier beneath his feet. The soles of his shoes rested an inch above the surface as he turned to watch the little rowboat float away. It was only seconds before it disappeared into the distance, but as it did the force holding him up seemed to vanish with it, and he plunged feet-first into the cold, swirling water of his dreams.

*

**April 4 - End.**

"We all ready?" Harry asked, slamming the trunk shut.

"As we'll ever be." John exchanged a quick glance with Sherlock across the car roof. "Demon knife?"

Harry touched her jacket pocket. "Got it. Clara, how's it coming?"

"I've got more control now," Clara answered absently, pulling the car door open with a twitch of her finger. She twisted her wrist and it slammed shut again. "Precision." She looked up. "Where's Gabriel?"

"He's meeting us there," Sherlock said dismissively, sliding into the driver's seat. "Keys." He held out a hand. Harry didn't look happy, but handed them over without vocalizing her complaints.

There was no traffic at all, which was unprecedented for a Saturday morning in Central London, and they made it to Trafalgar in record time. Sherlock swerved into a parking spot half a block up the Strand that, by all rights, shouldn't even have fit the car, and they piled out onto the sidewalk. Harry pulled the duffel bag out of the trunk as they turned to look at the Square, which was packed end-to-end with what looked like people. Nelson's Column bordered the southernmost edge of the crowd. They stood in an almost perfect circle, with a narrow passageway splitting the crowd into two halves. Those lining the aisle bristled at the closeness of their opposites.

"Look," Harry said, pointing at the passersby. "No one's noticing anything." It was as if Trafalgar had ceased to exist.

"Moriarty's got some skill in that area," John said, gaze sweeping the space. "Okay, I think the east half is the demons. We have the knife, salt, holy water; if we move fast enough we should be able to cut our way through."

"For the record, I maintain that this is the worst plan ever," Clara remarked grimly.

Sherlock scowled at the aerosol can of holy water he'd been given. "I feel like a child."

"Near enough," John joked, taking one of the salt guns from Harry. Clara took the other. The long-barreled shotguns weren't very discreetly concealed beneath their coats, but no one passing by seemed to notice. With all the nonchalance of a group of people trying and failing to be nonchalant, they sidled towards the Square, until they were practically breathing down the outermost demons' necks. The whole crowd was turned towards its center, so intent on what was happening that not a single demon stirred as they approached.

"Right, then." Drawing the demon knife, Harry squared her shoulders. "Let's get this over with."

"On my count," John said under his breath, eyes fixed on the demons. "One. Two."

"Whoa, whoa." A sandy-haired man stepped out of the crowd, hands in the air. A sniper's rifle was slung across his narrow back. "Let's just take a minute here, right?"

John faltered. "Moran?"

Sebastian Moran grinned, eyes briefly flickering black before returning to their usual green. "Hey, bud! Sorry about the other night, boss' orders, you know. But between you and me--" he winked and lowered his voice conspiratorially, "--I think you were supposed to escape."

"Get the fuck out of him, you bastard," Harry growled.

"And look, it's Harry! Clara! Gang's all here?" His gaze fell on Sherlock and he smiled. "Hope you know it's a real honor to meet you, Sherlock. It's all your choice, of course, but just you remember who's giving you the better deal. Yeah? Good luck in there." With a nod, Moran stepped backwards to be swallowed by the crowd. There was a moment's pause, and then the demons directly in front of them began to push together like oversized sardines, opening a narrow passageway through to the center. Some turned, but not one spoke.

John cleared his throat. "Er . . . Shall we?"

Sherlock briefly studied the swath cut through the ranks, his face expressionless, and then raised his chin and stepped forward, sweeping down the passageway. The others followed, guns cocked.

The empty space in the middle was perfectly circular, ringed by angels with vacantly obedient looks on their faces and demons who seemed almost bored. All eyes were fixed on the glistening red Seal, painted onto the bricks in what looked very much like fresh blood. It crackled with short bursts of energy.

Moriarty and Adriel-as-Mycroft stood on their respective sides, about as far apart in the circle as it was possible to be without actually being part of the crowd. Up until a moment ago, they had been very determinedly not looking at each other. Now they had turned towards Sherlock, each shifting to expressions of anticipation and perhaps even greed as they looked at him, though of course Mycroft hid it better.

"Right on time, Sherlock," Moriarty said with a wide grin, just as Big Ben began to chime the hour. When the bells had died away, he continued, "Eleven o'clock, on the dot. I knew you'd make it."

"Welcome, little brother." Mycroft smiled serenely, extending a hand. "Come. The angels will protect you."

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Don't bother, featherbed. Sherlock here doesn't need protection, do you, Sherlock? I promise you, if you come with me you'll never be bored again."

Mycroft shot the demon a hard look. "Demons are not to be trusted, Sherlock."

"No more than angels," Moriarty said, glaring back. "I never back down on a deal. Angels have no such reservations, believe you me. All you have to do is agree to a small favor. Then, all the excitement you could ever want."

Sherlock very nearly heard the _click_ of pieces slotting into place in John's head. "Sherlock," he blurted, seeming to forget for a moment where they were. "Sherlock, you're the Antichrist!"

Sherlock didn't turn around, his eyes flickering between the demon and the angel. "Yes, John, obviously," he drawled. "And you're the Heart. Haven't you been paying attention?"

Mycroft looked, just for a moment, well and truly shocked. Sherlock felt a brief flash of satisfaction. "How do you know about the prophecy?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please," he said, in his special talking-to-idiots tone. "'Come the Heart, come the Choice, come the End.'" He gestured impatiently towards the demon. “ _He_ left it all over the murder scenes. One letter on every body, how dull. He even laid them out in the right order. Honestly, it’s as if he _wanted_ me to figure it out.” Moriarty looked vaguely guilty.

Mycroft frowned. "That was in Enochian."

"It's just a code," Sherlock sighed. "Phonetics. Each letter is represented by a symbol carved onto a different body. Twelve people were killed at the first scene, thirteen at the second, and ten at the third. It likely translates into English, because these murders - and this message - occurred in London, and the message was meant for me. 'E' is the most common letter in the English language, as well as the most common letter here, so the symbol representing 'E' is obvious. It's a logical assumption that the letters were laid out in the correct order, because whoever placed them did so for a reason. From 'E', I followed the assumption that the second word was 'the' in every case. I then had 't' and 'h'. From there, it was simple systematic elimination of possibilities, and then determining the most sensible solution." He paused for effect. "Simple.

"Of course the meaning was even simpler, with the acceptance of the existence of the supernatural. The End is the Apocalypse, obviously, though changes have been made from the original. Both of you have been trying to get me on your sides for several days now." He glared at Mycroft and Moriarty in turn. "And I had it on good authority that demons and angels were fighting over me, specifically, so the Choice must be mine. I'm anything but a Heart, so -- something else, something that's come recently into my life." He paused, for so brief a moment that no one but himself would have noticed, then added, "Something that's made me better." 

Sherlock refused to turn and look at John's expression. It wasn't part of the plan.

There was a moment of stunned silence, before Moriarty stepped forward, unperturbed. "Fine," he said indifferently, "so you know everything. Hugs and kisses and congratulations. What'll it be?"

"Pardon?"

"Michael or Lucifer? Angels or demons? Make your Choice, Sherlock. Who are you with?"

Sherlock gestured casually at empty air. "Oh, I'm with him." With a loud noise, Gabriel appeared just where Sherlock was pointing.

"Oh, hello everyone!" The archangel grinned widely. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic was a bitch, you know." He waved cheerily to both sides and, amusingly, a couple from each side waved back.

For a moment Mycroft looked incredibly smug, the sort of look that nearly begged to be punched away. While Sherlock was sure that that would not be conducive to his plan, Gabriel seemed to have the same notion. He turned to Mycroft.

"Sorry to burst your bubble, little brother, but if he's with me . . . I'm with the humans."

The priceless look of confusion on Mycroft's face filled up nearly every brotherly feud endorphin receptor in Sherlock's body. He nodded appreciatively to the archangel. "Could you give me a lift?"

Gabriel shrugged. "Sure." With a snap of the angel's fingers, Sherlock was suddenly perched securely atop Nelson's Column. Its previous occupant, a larger-than-life sandstone statue of the monument's namesake, seemed to have temporarily taken a leave of absence.

From his vantage point, Sherlock could see the whole of the square. Most of the demons as well as John, Harry, and Clara seemed briefly confused by his sudden translocation, but they soon caught on and within a few moments the whole crowd had turned in his direction.

Sherlock's gaze darted around the crowd. It was startling, the variety of people the demons and angels were using as bodies: here was a lawyer, there was a homeless man (though not one of Sherlock's), that woman was obviously an accountant, and that man was a travel journalist . . .

He shook away the irrelevant details and drew himself up to speak. He hardly had to raise his voice; the square itself provided satisfactory amplification for the whole crowd to hear.

"Can anyone tell me why, exactly, this Apocalypse has to happen?" he demanded, addressing the crowd at large. " _Not_ you, Mycroft," he added as an afterthought, pointing at the angel.

One particularly courageous angel stepped into the open, head craning back to look at Sherlock on his lofty perch. (It was wearing a housewife. Sick husband, two -- no, three children.) "Because it's written," she volunteered boldly. "The prophecy must be fulfilled."

"Because it's _written_? Is that the only reason you're going to destroy half the world, because it's _written_?"

The angel seemed marginally less sure of herself now. "We must carry out God's Will."

"Lucifer will rise!" a demon yelled from the midst of the crowd. "He will destroy God's Creation and He will be King!" There were scattered shouts of agreement from the demon side.

"Michael will triumph," the housewife-angel predicted. "He will slaughter your kind and the wicked, and the seas will run red with your blood." Answering cheers from the angel side as well.

"Don't you all see, don't you get it?" Sherlock waved an arm in frustration, his amplified voice recapturing the crowd's attention. "If this was planned out from the beginning, then the outcome is predetermined anyway and there's no rational reason to see it through. You see, this is why I never follow orders; it rots your brain. Five thousand years of it and you're all practically mindless slugs. Now, I suggest that before you lot make any more world-ending decisions, you angels go back up to your great fluffy cloud-palace in the sky and have a nice long think about your truly impressive daddy issues. You demons, go kick a puppy or whatever it is you do to blow off steam, or find a nice S&M club; I'm sure they'd love to have you. You're all just a lot of puffed-up dolts with delusions of grandeur and IQs lower than most of the humans on this planet, which is really quite an accomplishment. So go home, all of you."

No one moved. Several hundred pairs of eyes were fixed on Sherlock; several hundred mouths hung slightly open in shock. Feeling that he was on a roll, Sherlock offhandedly added, "And if the last few minutes are any indication, God left because he couldn't stand the whining."

There was a sudden ripple of shock from the angels. Only Mycroft stood impassive.

"You didn't know?" Sherlock was, despite himself, faintly surprised. "It's obvious, really. The lack of control, the disjointedness of the planning. God, if there even is a God, hasn't been in charge for a long while, has he? This isn't the first try at the Apocalypse. And if Heaven's top warrior is locked in a Cage with the Devil, well, something's off there, isn't it?

"And while we're on the topic of the Cage, when designing the prison for one of the most powerful beings in the universe, next time, make it a little bit more difficult to break into, please. Half the Seal in demon blood, written by an angel. Half the Seal in angel blood, written by a demon. An angel and a demon working together -- but it always comes down to the blood, doesn't it? I wonder what it would take to fuse the lock." He shot John a meaningful look. "Following the pattern, there's angel and demon, of course --" Gabriel appeared beside Clara "-- pure human --" Harry quietly reached into her pocket "-- the Heart --" Sherlock nodded faintly at John "-- and, of course, me." With a flourish, Sherlock whipped out a pocketknife from beneath his coat and opened his hand, slicing a shallow cut across his palm in one swift movement. He turned his open fist downwards, letting the blood fall -- fall -- stop.

Clara had her telekinesing face on, staring intently at the blood droplets as they hung in midair. All at once, they flew across the square to join the blood pooled in her hands, donated by Gabriel, John, Harry, and Clara herself. Before the crowd around them could react, she stepped forward and opened her hands over the Seal.

The moment the new blood spattered over the complex design, the whole Seal began to glow, the energy crackling from it growing taller and hotter. There was a sudden flash of white light, briefly blinding the whole crowd, and then it vanished. When Sherlock blinked his eyes open again, the entire Seal was gone. He clenched his fist, feeling the warm wetness on his palm.

"The Apocalypse is over," Sherlock said firmly to the motionless crowd, holding up his bloody hand. "Go home."

Silently, one or two angels flickered out of view. A few demons threw back their heads and abandoned their hosts, roaring black clouds swirling into the London sky. Then a few others from each side, and then more, angels and demons fleeing the scene of the failure. Within a minute, the square was empty save for those that had been in the center as well as the former demon hosts, all unconscious or worse.

Moriarty grinned at Mycroft. "Well, Adriel. I think that went well, don't you?" Without waiting for an answer, he vanished.

His angelic counterpart turned towards Nelson's Column, meeting his vessel's brother's eyes. Without a word, he too disappeared.

"Gabriel," Sherlock said, his amplified voice seeming louder than it had been a moment ago. The archangel vanished for a moment, and when he returned he had Sherlock by the shoulder. Struck by vertigo from his sudden altitude change, Sherlock stumbled a little. John caught his arm.

"Is it over?" Harry asked, still eyeing the place where the Seal had been with some mistrust. "Did we do it?"

Gabriel nodded, looking as pleased as if he had done the task single-handedly. "Me: two. Universe: zero."

"What about them?" Clara looked with concern at the semicircle of unconscious demon hosts.

"They'll be fine." Gabriel shrugged, waving a hand. "They'll stumble home on their own, won't remember a thing."

A sudden wave of elation swept over the group, born mostly of the post-adrenaline "I-can't-believe-we're-still-alive" rush. "Jesus, Sherlock, you stopped the bloody Apocalypse!" John exclaimed, throwing his arms around the taller man in an unexpected hug. After a moment's surprise, Sherlock hugged back.

It was a very brief hug and they broke apart quickly. Harry and Clara also had their arms about one another, but had gone a bit beyond hugging. Gabriel was watching them with some interest. Noticing the kissing going on next to them, Sherlock and John exchanged awkward glances and edged quickly away from each other.

When they returned to the flat, Mrs. Hudson had tea and biscuits waiting.

*

**April 5 - Begin.**

All was quiet on Baker Street, save for the quivering strains of what John thought was Mozart floating from the open windows of 221b.

"Sherlock," John said. There was no response, but he knew Sherlock was listening. "You never did explain how you knew about the blood."

Sherlock set down his violin and strode over to the window. "I didn't," he agreed.

"Care to enlighten me?"

Sherlock turned from the window, a wide, familiar grin stretching across his face. "Shot in the dark. Come on, there's been a murder." Tossing John's jacket to its owner, he began to pull on his own coat and scarf.

"What -- a shot in the dark? You risked the entire planet on a _guess_?"

"Not a guess, John, I never guess."

"Yes you do," John insisted as they rattled down the stairs. "You guess all the time. And how do you know there's been a murder?"

Before he could answer, Sherlock nearly ran into the man emerging from 221a.

"I'll see you next week, Mrs. Hudson," Gabriel said with a cheery wave. "Thank you for the tea."

end.

| (an end is just another word for a beginning) |


End file.
